THE 

UDGM&NT 
I  HOUSE 


GILBERT    PARKER 


THE 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 


BOOKS  BY 
GILBERT   PARKER 

PUBLISHED   BY   HARPER  &   BROTHERS 

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THE  JUDGMENT  HOUSE.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

CUMNER'S  SON.     Post  8vo 

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WHEN  VALMOND  CAME  TO  PONTIAC.     lOmo 

(PUBLISHED  ELSEWHERE) 

MRS.   FALCHION 

THE   TRESPASSER 

THE   TRANSLATION   OF  A   SAVAGE 

THE   TRAIL   OF  THE   SWORD 

THE  SEATS   OF  THE   MIGHTY 

THE  POMP  OF  THE   LAVILETTES 

DONOVAN   PASHA 

YOU  NEVER  KNOW  YOUR  LUCK 

EMBERS.     (Poems) 

OLD  QUEBEC.  (History— In  collaboration  with  C.  G.  Bryan) 

ROUND  THE  COMPASS  IN  AUSTRALIA  (Travel) 

THE  WORLD  IN  THE  CRUCIBLE(Study  of  the  War) 


p.  278 

RUDYARD   LIFTED   HER   IN   HIS    ARMS    AND    CARRIED    HER    UP-STAIRS 


THE 

JUDGMENT 
HOUSE 

A    NOVEL 
BY 

GILBERT   PARKER 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 

W.  HATHERELL,  R.I. 


HARPER   &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK   AND    LONDON 


TO 
BAL 

ADMIRED  BY    HIS    COUNTRY'S    FRIENO* 

AND 
BELOVED   BY    HIS    OWN 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I 

CHAP.  PAG* 

I.  THE  JASMINE  FLOWER 3 

II.  THE  UNDERGROUND  WORLD 14 

III.  A  DAUGHTER  OF  TYRE 22 

IV.  THE  PARTNERS  MEET 39 

V.  A  WOMAN  TELLS  HER  STORY 52 

VI.  WITHIN  THE  POWER-HOUSE 64 

BOOK  II 

VII.  THREE  YEARS  LATER 77 

VIII.  "HE  SHALL  NOT  TREAT  ME  So" 92 

IX.  THE  APPIAN  WAY    .    .    .   ,.    ^ 99 

X.  AN  ARROW  FINDS  A  BREAST 117 

XI.  IN  WALES,  WHERE  JIGGER  PLAYS  His  PART  ...  131 

XII.  THE  KEY  IN  THE  LOCK 144 

XIII.  "I  WILL  NOT  SING" 153 

XIV.  THE  BAAS 163 

BOOK  III 

XV.  THE  WORLD  WELL  LOST 179 

XVI.  THE  COMING  OF  THE  BAAS 188 

XVII.  Is  THERE  No  HELP  FOR  THESE  THINGS?    ....  197 

XVIII.  LANDRASSY'S  LAST  STROKE 213 

vii 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGB 

XIX.  " TO-MORROW  .  .  .  PREPARE!" 223 

XX.  THE  FURNACE  DOOR 227 

XXI.  THE  BURNING  FIERY  FURNACE 241 

XXII.  IN  WHICH  FELLOWES  GOES  A  JOURNEY      ...  257 

XXIII.  "MORE  WAS  LOST  AT  MOHACKSFIELD"     .    .    .  266 

XXIV.  ONE  WHO  CAME  SEARCHING 279 

XXV.  WHEREIN  THE  LOST  Is  FOUND 289 

XXVI.  JASMINE'S  LETTER 299 

XXVII.  KROOL 304 

XXVIII.  "THE  BATTLE  CRY  OF  FREEDOM" 325 

BOOK  IV 

XXIX.  THE  MENACE  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN 349 

XXX.  "AND  NEVER  THE  TWAIN  SHALL  MEET!"      .     .  364 

XXXI.  THE  GREY  HORSE  AND  ITS  RIDER 374 

XXXII.  THE  WORLD'S  FOUNDLING 386 

XXXIII.  "ALAMACHTIG!" 395 

XXXIV.  "THE  ALPINE  FELLOW" 407 

XXXV.  AT  BRINKWORT'S  FARM 420 

XXXVI.  SPRINGS  OF  HEALING 431 

XXXVII.  UNDER  THE  GUN 449 

XXXVIII.  "  PHEIDIPPIUES  " 462 

XXXIX.  "THE  ROAD  Is  CLEAR" 464 

GLOSSARY 470 


NOTE 
J 

Except  where  references  to  characters  well-known  to  all 
the  world  occur  in  these  pages,  this  book  does  not  present 
a  picture  of  public  or  private  individuals  living  or  dead. 
It  is  not  in  any  sense  a  historical  novel.  It  is  in  conception 
and  portraiture  a  work  of  the  imagination. 


"  Strangers  come  to  the  outer  wall— 

(Why  do  the  sleepers  stir?} 
Strangers  enter  the  Judgment  House — 

(Why  do  the  sleepers  sigh?) 
Slow  they  rise  in  their  judgment  seats, 
Sieve  and  measure  the  naked  souls, 
Then  with  a  blessing  return  to  sleep. 

(Quiet  the  Judgment  House.) 
Lone  and  sick  are  the  vagrant  souls — 

(When  shall  the  world  come  home?)" 

"Let  them  fight  it  out,  friend!  things  have  gone  too  far, 
God  must  judge  the  couple:  leave  them  as  they  are — 
Whichever  one's  the  guiltless,  to  his  glory,' 
And  whichever  one  the  guilt's  with,  to  my  story! 

"Once  more.    Will  the  wronger,  at  this  last  of  all, 
Dare  to  say,  'I  did  wrong,'  rising  in  his  fall? 
No?    Let  go,  then!    Both  the  fighters  to  their  places! 
While  I  count  three,  step  you  back  as  many  paces!" 

"And  the  Sibyl,  you  know.  I  saw  her  with  my  own  eyes  at 
Cumae,  hanging  in  a  jar;  and,  when  the  boys  asked  her,  'What 
would  you,  Sibyl?'  she  answered,  'I  would  die.'" 

"So  is  Pheidippides  happy  for  ever, — the  noble  strong  man 
Who  would  race  like  a  God,  bear  the  face  of  a  God,  whom  a 

God  loved  so  well: 
He  saw  the  land  saved  he  had  helped  to  save,  and  was  suffered 

to  tell 

Such  tidings,  yet  never  decline,  but,  gloriously  as  he  began 
So  to  end  gloriously — once  to  shout,  thereafter  be  mute: 
'Athens  is  saved!'  Pheidippides  dies  in  the  shout  for  his  meed." 


"Oh,  never  star 
Was  lost  here,  but  it  rose  afar." 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

BOOK    I 


CHAPTER   I 

THE   JASMINE    FLOWER 

THE  music  throbbed  in  a  voice  of  singular  and  deli- 
cate power;  the  air  was  resonant  with  melody,  love 
and  pain.  The  meanest  Italian  in  the  gallery  far  up  be- 
neath the  ceiling,  the  most  exalted  of  the  land  in  the  boxes 
and  the  stalls,  leaned  indulgently  forward,  to  be  swept  by 
this  sweet  storm  of  song.  They  yielded  themselves  ut- 
terly to  the  power  of  the  triumphant  debutante  who  was 
making  "Manassa"  the  musical  feast  of  the  year,  renew- 
ing to  Covent  Garden  a  reputation  which  recent  lack  of 
enterprise  had  somewhat  forfeited. 

Yet,  apparently,  not  all  the  vast  audience  were  hypno- 
tized by  the  unknown  and  unheralded  singer,  whose  stage 
name  was  Al'mah.  At  the  moment  of  the  opera's  supreme 
appeal  the  eyes  of  three  people  at  least  were  not  in  the 
thraldom  of  the  singer.  Seated  at  the  end  of  the  first  row 
of  the  stalls  was  a  fair,  slim,  graciously  attired  man  of 
about  thirty,  who,  turning  in  his  seat  so  that  nearly  the 
whole  house  was  in  his  circle  of  vision,  stroked  his  golden 
moustache,  and  ran  his  eyes  over  the  thousands  of  faces 
with  a  smile  of  pride  and  satisfaction  which  in  a  less  hand- 
some man  would  have  been  almost  a  leer.  His  name  was 
Adrian  Fellowes, 

3 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Either  the  opera  and  the  singer  had  no  charms  for 
Adrian  Fellowes,  or  else  he  had  heard  both  so  often  that, 
without  doing  violence  to  his  musical  sense,  he  could 
afford  to  study  the  effect  of  this  wonderful  effort  upon 
the  mob  of  London,  mastered  by  the  radiant  being  on  the 
stage.  Very  sleek,  handsome,  and  material  he  looked; 
of  happy  colour,  and,  apparently,  with  a  mind  and  soul  in 
which  no  conflicts  ever  raged — to  the  advantage  of  his 
attractive  exterior.  Only  at  the  summit  of  the  applause 
did  he  turn  to  the  stage  again.  Then  it  was  with  the  gloat- 
ing look  of  the  gambler  who  swings  from  the  roulette-table 
with  the  winnings  of  a  great  coup,  cynical  joy  in  his  eyes 
that  he  has  beaten  the  Bank,  conquered  the  dark  spirit 
which  has  tricked  him  so  often.  Now  the  cold-blue  eyes 
caught,  for  a  second,  the  dark-brown  eyes  of  the  Celtic 
singer,  which  laughed  at  him  gaily,  victoriously,  eagerly, 
and  then  again  drank  in  the  light  and  the  joy  of  the  myriad 
faces  before  her. 

In  a  box  opposite  the  royal  box  were  two  people,  a  man 
and  a  very  young  woman,  who  also  in  the  crise  of  the 
opera  were  not  looking  at  the  stage.  The  eyes  of  the  man, 
sitting  well  back — purposely,  so  that  he  might  see  her 
without  marked  observation — were  fixed  upon  the  rose- 
tinted,  delicate  features  of  the  girl  in  a  joyous  blue  silk 
gown,  which  was  so  perfect  a  contrast  to  the  golden  hair 
and  wonderful  colour  of  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  her  lap,  the  lids  half  closed,  as  though  in  reverie,  yet 
with  that  perspicuous  and  reflective  look  which  showed 
her  conscious  of  all  that  was  passing  round  her — even  the 
effect  of  her  own  pose.  Her  name  was  Jasmine  Grenfel. 

She  was  not  oblivious  of  the  music.  Her  heart  beat 
faster  because  of  it;  and  a  temperament  adjustable  to 
every  mood  and  turn  of  human  feeling  was  answering  to 
the  poignancy  of  the  opera;  yet  her  youth,  child-likeness, 
and  natural  spontaneity  were  controlled  by  an  elate  con- 
sciousness. She  was  responsive  to  the  passionate  har- 
mony; but  she  was  also  acutely  sensitive  to  the  bold  yet 
4 


THE    JASMINE    FLOWER 

deferential  appeal  to  her  emotions  of  the  dark,  distin- 
guished, bearded  man  at  her  side,  with  the  brown  eyes 
and  the  Grecian  profile,  whose  years  spent  in  the  Foreign 
Office  and  at  embassies  on  the  Continent  had  given  him 
a  tact  and  an  insinuating  address  peculiarly  alluring  to 
her  sex.  She  was  well  aware  of  Ian  Stafford's  ambitions, 
and  had  come  to  the  point  where  she  delighted  in  them, 
and  had  thought  of  sharing  in  them,  "for  weal  or  for 
woe";  but  she  would  probably  have  resented  the  sug- 
gestion that  his  comparative  poverty  was  weighed  against 
her  natural  inclinations  and  his  real  and  honest  passion. 
For  she  had  her  ambitions,  too;  and  when  she  had 
scanned  the  royal  box  that  night,  she  had  felt  that  some- 
thing only  little  less  than  a  diadem  would  really  sat- 
isfy her. 

Then  it  was  that  she  had  turned  meditatively  towards 
another  occupant  of  her  box,  who  sat  beside  her  pretty 
stepmother — a  big,  bronzed,  clean-shaven,  strong-faced 
man  of  about  the  same  age  as  Ian  Stafford  of  the  Foreign 
Office,  who  had  brought  him  that  night  at  her  request. 
Ian  had  called  him,  "my  South  African  nabob,"  in  tribute 
to  the  millions  he  had  made  with  Cecil  Rhodes  and  others 
at  Kimberley  and  on  the  Rand.  At  first  sight  of  the 
forceful  and  rather  ungainly  form  she  had  inwardly  con- 
trasted it  with  the  figure  of  Ian  Stafford  and  that  other 
spring-time  figure  of  a  man  at  the  end  of  the  first  row  in 
the  stalls,  towards  which  the  prima  donna  had  flashed 
one  trusting,  happy  glance,  and  with  which  she  herself 
had  been  familiar  since  her  childhood.  The  contrast  had 
not  been  wholly  to  the  advantage  of  the  nabob;  though, 
to  be  sure,  he  was  simply  arrayed — as  if,  indeed,  he  were 
not  worth  a  thousand  a  year.  Certainly  he  had  about 
him  a  sense  of  power,  but  his  occasional  laugh  was  too 
vigorous  for  one  whose  own  great  sense  of  humour  was  con- 
veyed by  an  infectious,  rippling  murmur  delightful  to 
hear. 

Rudyard  Byng  was  worth  three  millions  of  pounds,  and 
5 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

that  she  interested  him  was  evident  by  the  sudden  arrest 
of  his  look  and  his  movements  when  introduced  to  her. 
Ian  Stafford  had  noted  this  look;  but  he  had  seen  many 
another  man  look  at  Jasmine  Grenfel  with  just  as  much 
natural  and  unbidden  interest,  and  he  shrugged  the 
shoulders  of  his  mind;  for  the  millions  alone  would  not 
influence  her,  that  was  sure.  Had  she  not  a  comfortable 
fortune  of  her  own?  Besides,  Byng  was  not  the  kind  of 
man  to  capture  Jasmine's  fastidious  sense  and  nature.  So 
much  had  happened  between  Jasmine  and  himself,  so 
deep  an  understanding  had  grown  up  between  them,  that 
it  only  remained  to  bring  her  to  the  last  court  of  inquiry 
and  get  reply  to  a  vital  question — already  put  in  a  thou- 
sand ways  and  answered  to  his  perfect  satisfaction.  In- 
deed, there  was  between  Jasmine  and  himself  the  equiva- 
lent of  a  bethrothal.  He  had  asked  her  to  marry  him, 
and  she  had  not  said  no;  but  she  had  bargained  for  time 
to  " prepare" ;  that  she  should  have  another  year  in  which 
to  be  gay  in  a  gay  world  and,  in  her  own  words,  "walk 
the  primrose  path  of  pleasure  untrammelled  and  alone, 
save  for  my  dear  friend  Mrs.  Grundy." 

Since  that  moment  he  had  been  quite  sure  that  all  was 
well.  And  now  the  year  was  nearly  up,  and  she  had  not 
changed;  had,  indeed,  grown  more  confiding  and  deli- 
cately dependent  in  manner  towards  him,  though  seeing 
him  but  seldom  alone. 

As  Ian  Stafford  looked  at  her  now,  he  kept  saying  to 
himself,  "So  exquisite  and  so  clever,  what  will  she  not  be 
at  thirty!  So  well  poised,  and  yet  so  sweetly  child-like — 
dear  dresden-china  Jasmine." 

That  was  what  she  looked  like — a  lovely  thing  of  the 
time  of  Boucher  in  dresden-china. 

At  last,  as  though  conscious  of  what  was  going  on  in 
his  mind,  she  slowly  turned  her  drooping  eyes  towards 
him,  and,  over  her  shoulder,  as  he  quickly  leaned  forward, 
she  said  in  a  low  voice  which  the  others  could  not  hear: 

"I  am  too  young,  and  not  clever  enough  to  under- 
6 


THE   JASMINE    FLOWER 

stand  all  the  music  means — is  that  what  you  are  think- 
ing?" 

He  shook  his  head  in  negation,  and  his  dark-brown  eyes 
commanded  hers,  but  still  deferentially,  as  he  said:  "You 
know  of  what  I  was  thinking.  You  will  be  forever  young, 
but  yours  was  always — will  always  be — the  wisdom  of 
the  wise.  I'd  like  to  have  been  as  clever  at  twenty-two." 

"How  trying  that  you  should  know  my  age  so  exactly 
— it  darkens  the  future,"  she  rejoined  with  a  soft  little 
laugh;  then,  suddenly,  a  cloud  passed  over  her  face.  It 
weighed  down  her  eyelids,  and  she  gazed  before  her  into 
space  with  a  strange,  perplexed,  and  timorous  anxiety. 
What  did  she  see?  Nothing  that  was  light  and  joyous, 
for  her  small  sensuous  lips  drew  closer,  and  the  fan  she 
held  in  her  lap  slipped  from  her  fingers  to  the  floor. 

This  aroused  her,  and  Stafford,  as  he  returned  the  fan 
to  her,  said  into  a  face  again  alive  to  the  present:  "You 
look  as  though  you  were  trying  to  summon  the  sable 
spirits  of  a  sombre  future." 

Her  fine  pink-white  shoulders  lifted  a  little  and,  once 
more  quite  self-possessed,  she  rejoined,  lightly,  "I  have  a 
chameleon  mind;  it  chimes  with  every  mood  and  circum- 
stance." 

Suddenly  her  eyes  rested  on  Rudyard  Byng,  and  some- 
thing in  the  rough  power  of  the  head  arrested  her  atten- 
tion, and  the  thought  flashed  through  her  mind:  "How 
wonderful  to  have  got  so  much  at  thirty- three !  Three 
millions  at  thirty- three — and  millions  beget  millions!" 

.  .  .  Power — millions  meant  power;  millions  made  ready 
the  stage  for  the  display  and  use  of  every  gift,  gave  the 
opportunity  for  the  full  occupation  of  all  personal  quali- 
ties, made  a  setting  for  the  jewel  of  life  and  beauty,  which 
reflected,  intensified  every  ray  of  merit.  Power — that 
was  it.  Her  own  grandfather  had  had  power.  He  had 
made  his  fortune,  a  great  one  too,  by  patents  which  ex- 
ploited the  vanity  of  mankind,  and,  as  though  to  prove 
his  cynical  contempt  for  his  fellow-creatures,  had  then 
2  7 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

invented  a  quick-firing  gun  which  nearly  every  nation  in 
the  world  adopted.  First,  he  had  got  power  by  a  fortune 
which  represented  the  shallowness  and  gullibility  of  hu- 
man nature,  then  had  exploited  the  serious  gift  which  had 
always  been  his,  the  native  genius  which  had  devised  the 
gun  when  he  was  yet  a  boy.  He  had  died  at  last  with 
the  smile  on  his  lips  which  had  followed  his  remark, 
quoted  in  every  great  newspaper  of  two  continents,  that: 
"The  world  wants  to  be  fooled,  so  I  fooled  it;  it  wants  to 
be  stunned,  so  I  stunned  it.  My  fooling  will  last  as  long 
as  my  gun;  and  both  have  paid  me  well.  But  they  all 
love  being  fooled  best." 

Old  Draygon  Grenfel's  fortune  had  been  divided  among 
his  three  sons  and  herself,  for  she  had  been  her  grand- 
father's favourite,  and  she  was  the  only  grandchild  to 
whom  he  had  left  more  than  a  small  reminder  of  his 
existence.  As  a  child  her  intelligence  was  so  keen,  her 
perception  so  acute,  she  realized  him  so  well,  that  he  had 
said  she  was  the  only  one  of  his  blood  who  had  anything 
of  himself  in  character  or  personality,  and  he  predicted— 
too  often  in  her  presence — that  she  "would  give  the  world 
a  start  or  two  when  she  had  the  chance."  His  intellect- 
ual contempt  for  his  eldest  son,  her  father,  was  repro- 
duced in  her  with  no  prompting  on  his  part;  and,  with- 
out her  own  mother  from  the  age  of  three,  Jasmine  had 
grown  up  self-willed  and  imperious,  yet  with  too  much 
intelligence  to  carry  her  will  and  power  too  far.  Infinite 
adaptability  had  been  the  result  of  a  desire  to  please  and 
charm;  behind  which  lay  an  unlimited  determination  to 
get  her  own  way  and  bend  other  wills  to  hers. 

The  two  wills  she  had  not  yet  bent  as  she  pleased  were 
those  of  her  stepmother  and  of  Ian  Stafford — one,  because 
she  was  jealous  and  obstinate,  and  the  other  because  he 
had  an  adequate  self-respect  and  an  ambition  of  his  own 
to  have  his  way  in  a  world  which  would  not  give  save  at 
the  point  of  the  sword.  Come  of  as  good  family  as  there 
was  in  England,  and  the  grandson  of  a  duke,  he  still  was 


THE   JASMINE    FLOWER 

eager  for  power,  determined  to  get  on,  ingenious  in  search- 
ing for  that  opportunity  which  even  the  most  distinguished 
talent  must  have,  if  it  is  to  soar  high  above  the  capable 
average.  That  chance,  the  predestined  alluring  opening, 
had  not  yet  come;  but  his  eyes  were  wide  open,  and  he 
was  ready  for  the  spring — nerved  the  more  to  do  so  by 
the  thought  that  Jasmine  would  appreciate  his  success 
above  all  others,  even  from  the  standpoint  of  intellectual 
appreciation,  all  emotions  excluded.  How  did  it  come 
that  Jasmine  was  so  worldly  wise,  and  yet  so  marvellously 
the  insouciant  child? 

He  followed  her  slow,  reflective  glance  at  Byng,  and  the 
impression  of  force  and  natural  power  of  the  millionaire 
struck  him  now,  as  it  had  often  done.  As  though  sum- 
moned by  them  both,  Byng  turned  his  face  and,  catching 
Jasmine's  eyes,  smiled  and  leaned  forward. 

"  I  haven't  got  over  that  great  outburst  of  singing  yet," 
he  said,  with  a  little  jerk  of  the  head  towards  the  stage, 
where,  for  the  moment,  minor  characters  were  in  posses- 
sion, preparing  the  path  for  the  last  rush  of  song  by  which 
Al'mah,  the  new  prima  donna,  would  bring  her  first  night 
to  a  complete  triumph. 

With  face  turned  full  towards  her,  something  of  the 
power  of  his  head  seemed  to  evaporate  swiftly.  It  was 
honest,  alert,  and  almost  brutally  simple — the  face  of  a 
pioneer.  The  forehead  was  broad  and  strong,  and  the 
chin  was  square  and  determined;  but  the  full,  dark-blue 
eyes  had  in  them  shadows  of  rashness  and  recklessness, 
the  mouth  was  somewhat  self-indulgent  and  indolent; 
though  the  hands  clasping  both  knees  were  combined  of 
strength,  activity,  and  also  a  little  of  grace. 

"  I  never  had  much  chance  to  hear  great  singers  before 
I  went  to  South  Africa,"  he  added,  reflectively,  "and  this 
swallows  me  like  a  storm  on  the  high  veld  —  all  light- 
ning and  thunder  and  flood.  I've  missed  a  lot  in  my 
time." 

With  a  look  which  made  his  pulses  gallop,  Jasmine 
9 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

leaned  over  and  whispered — for  the  prima  donna  was 
beginning  to  sing  again: 

"There's  nothing  you  have  missed  in  your  race  that 
you  cannot  ride  back  and  collect.  It  is  those  who  haven't 
run  a  race  who  cannot  ride  back.  You  have  won;  and  it 
is  all  waiting  for  you." 

Again  her  eyes  beamed  upon  him,  and  a  new  sensation 
came  to  him — the  kind  of  thing  he  felt  once  when  he  was 
sixteen,  and  the  vicar's  daughter  had  suddenly  held  him 
up  for  quite  a  week,  while  all  his  natural  occupations  were 
neglected,  and  the  spirit  of  sport  was  humiliated  and 
abashed.  Also  he  had  caroused  in  his  time — who  was 
there  in  those  first  days  at  Kimberley  and  on  the  Rand 
who  did  not  carouse,  when  life  was  so  hard,  luck  so  un- 
certain, and  food  so  bad;  when  men  got  so  dead  beat, 
with  no  homes  anywhere — only  shake-downs  and  the 
Tents  of  Shem?  Once  he  had  had  a  native  woman  sum- 
moned to  be  his  slave,  to  keep  his  home;  but  that  was  a 
business  which  had  revolted  him,  and  he  had  never  re- 
peated the  experiment.  Then,  there  had  been  an  ad- 
venturess, a  wandering,  foreign  princess  who  had  fooled 
him  and  half  a  dozen  of  his  friends  to  the  top  of  their 
bent;  but  a  thousand  times  he  had  preferred  other  sorts 
of  pleasures — cards,  horses,  and  the  bright  outlook  which 
came  with  the  clinking  glass  after  the  strenuous  day. 

Jasmine  seemed  to  divine  it  all  as  she  looked  at  him — 
his  primitive,  almost  Edenic  sincerity;  his  natural  in- 
dolence and  native  force:  a  nature  that  would  not  stir 
until  greatly  roused,  but  then,  with  an  unyielding  per- 
sistence and  concentrated  force,  would  range  on  to  its 
goal,  making  up  for  a  slow-moving  intellect  by  sheer  will, 
vision  and  a  gallant  heart. 

Al'mah  was  singing  again,  and  Byng  leaned  forward 
eagerly.  There  was  a  rustle  in  the  audience,  a  movement 
to  a  listening  position,  then  a  tense  waiting  and  attention. 

As  Jasmine  composed  herself  she  said  in  a  low  voice  to 
Ian  Stafford,  whose  well-proportioned  character,  per- 


THE    JASMINE    FLOWER 

sonality,  and  refinement  of  culture  were  in  such  marked 
contrast  to  the  personality  of  the  other:  "They  live  hard 
lives  in  those  new  lands.  He  has  wasted  much  of  him- 
self." 

"Three  millions  at  thirty-three  means  spending  a  deal 
of  one  thing  to  get  another,"  Ian  answered  a  little 
grimly. 

"Hush!    Oh,  Ian,  listen!"  she  added  in  a  whisper. 

Once  more  Al'mah  rose  to  mastery  over  the  audience. 
The  bold  and  generous  orchestration,  the  exceptional 
chorus,  the  fine  and  brilliant  tenor,  had  made  a  broad 
path  for  her  last  and  supreme  effort.  The  audience  had 
long  since  given  up  their  critical  sense,  they  were  ready 
to  be  carried  into  captivity  again,  and  the  surrender  was 
instant  and  complete.  Now,  not  an  eye  was  turned  away 
from  the  singer.  Even  the  Corinthian  gallant  at  the  end 
of  the  first  row  of  stalls  gave  himself  up  to  feasting  on 
her  and  her  success,  and  the  characters  in  the  opera  were 
as  electrified  as  the  audience. 

For  a  whole  seven  minutes  this  voice  seemed  to  be  the 
only  thing  in  the  world,  transposing  all  thoughts,  emotions, 
all  elements  of  life  into  terms  of  melody.  Then,  at  last, 
with  a  crash  of  sweetness,  the  voice  broke  over  them  all 
in  crystals  of  sound  and  floated  away  into  a  world  of 
bright  dreams. 

An  instant's  silence  which  followed  was  broken  by  a 
tempest  of  applause.  Again,  again,  and  again  it  was  re- 
newed. The  subordinate  singers  were  quickly  disposed 
of  before  the  curtain,  then  Al'mah  received  her  memo- 
rable tribute.  How  many  times  she  came  and  went  she 
never  knew;  but  at  last  the  curtain,  rising,  showed  her 
well  up  the  stage  beside  a  table  where  two  huge  candles 
flared.  The  storm  of  applause  breaking  forth  once  more, 
the  grateful  singer  raised  her  arms  and  spread  them  out 
impulsively  in  gratitude  and  dramatic  abandon. 

As  she  did  so,  the  loose,  flowing  sleeve  of  her  robe  caught 
the  flame  of  a  candle,  and  in  an  instant  she  was  in  a  cloud 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

of  fire.  The  wild  applause  turned  suddenly  to  notes  of 
terror  as,  with  a  sharp  cry,  she  stumbled  forward  to  the 
middle  of  the  stage. 

For  one  stark  moment  no  one  stirred,  then  suddenly 
a  man  with  an  opera-cloak  on  his  arm  was  seen  to  spring 
across  a  space  of  many  feet  between  a  box  on  the  level  of 
the  stage  and  the  stage  itself.  He  crashed  into  the  foot- 
lights, but  recovered  himself  and  ran  forward.  In  an 
instant  he  had  enveloped  the  agonized  figure  of  the  singer 
and  had  crushed  out  the  flames  with  swift,  strong  move- 
ments. 

Then  lifting  the  now  unconscious  artist  in  his  great 
arms,  he  strode  off  with  her  behind  the  scenes. 

"Well  done,  Byng!  Well  done,  Ruddy  Byng!"  cried 
a  strong  voice  from  the  audience;  and  a  cheer  went  up. 

In  a  moment  Byng  returned  and  came  down  the  stage. 
"She  is  not  seriously  hurt,"  he  said  simply  to  the  au- 
dience. "We  were  just  in  time." 

Presently,  as  he  entered  the  Grenfel  box  again,  deafen- 
ing applause  broke  forth. 

"We  were  just  in  time,"  said  Ian  Stafford,  with  an  ad- 
miring, teasing  laugh,  as  he  gripped  Byng's  arm. 

"'We' — well,  it  was  a  royal  business,"  said  Jasmine, 
standing  close  to  him  and  looking  up  into  his  eyes  with 
that  ingratiating  softness  which  had  deluded  many  an- 
other man;  "but  do  you  realize  that  it  was  my  cloak  you 
took?"  she  added,  whimsically. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  it  was,"  Byng  answered,  boyishly. 
"You'll  have  to  wear  my  overcoat  home." 

"I  certainly  will,"  she  answered.  "Come — the  giant's 
robe." 

People  were  crowding  upon  their  box. 

"Let's  get  out  of  this,"  Byng  said,  as  he  took  his  coat 
from  the  hook  on  the  wall. 

As  they  left  the  box  the  girl's  white-haired,  prema- 
turely aged  father  whispered  in  the  pretty  stepmoth- 
er's ear; 


THE    JASMINE    FLOWER 

"Jasmine  '11  marry  that  nabob — you'll  see." 

The  stepmother  shrugged  a  shoulder.     "Jasmine  is  in 

love  with  Ian  Stafford,"  she  said,  decisively. 

"But  she'll  many  Rudyard  Byng,"  was  the  stubborn 

reply. 


CHAPTER   II 

THE   UNDERGROUND  WORLD 

"  \ A 7HAT'S  that  y°u  say— Jameson!— what?" 

V  V  Rudyard  Byng  paused  with  the  lighted  match  at 
the  end  of  his  cigar,  and  stared  at  a  man  who  was  reading 
from  a  tape-machine,  which  gave  the  club  the  world's 
news  from  minute  to  minute. 

"Dr.  Jameson's  riding  on  Johannesburg  with  eight 
hundred  men.  He  started  from  Pitsani  two  days  ago. 
And  Cronje  with  his  burghers  are  out  after  him." 

The  flaming  match  burned  Byng's  ringers.  He  threw 
it  into  the  fireplace,  and  stood  transfixed  for  a  moment, 
his  face  hot  with  feeling,  then  he  burst  out: 

"But — God!  they're  not  ready  at  Johannesburg.  The 
burghers  '11  catch  him  at  Doornkop  or  somewhere,  and — 

He  paused,  overcome.  His  eyes  .suffused.  His  hands 
went  out  in  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"Jameson's  jumped  too  soon,"  he  muttered.  "He's 
lost  the  game  for  them." 

The  other  eyed  him  quizzically.  "Perhaps  he'll  get 
in  yet.  He  surely  planned  the  thing  with  due  regard  for 
every  chance.  Johannesburg — ' 

"Johannesburg  isn't  ready,  Stafford.  I  know.  That 
Jameson  and  the  Rand  should  coincide  was  the  only 
chance.  And  they'll  not  coincide  now.  It  might  have 
been — it  was  to  have  been  —  a  revolution  at  Johannes- 
burg, with  Dr.  Jim  to  step  in  at  the  right  minute.  It's 
only  a  filibustering  business  now,  and  Oom  Paul  will 
catch  the  filibuster,  as  sure  as  guns.  'Gad,  it  makes  xne 
sick!" 


THE    UNDERGROUND    WORLD 

"Europe  will  like  it — much,"  remarked  Ian  Stafford, 
cynically,  offering  Byng  a  lighted  match. 

Byng  grumbled  out  an  oath,  then  fixed  his  clear,  strong 
look  on  Stafford.  "  It's  almost  enough  to  make  Germany 
and  France  forget  1870  and  fall  into  each  other's  arms," 
he  answered.  "But  that's  your  business,  you  Foreign 
Office  people's  business.  It's  the  fellows  out  there,  friends 
of  mine,  so  many  of  them,  I'm  thinking  of.  It's  the  Brit- 
ish kids  that  can't  be  taught  in  their  mother-tongue,  and 
the  men  who  pay  all  the  taxes  and  can't  become  citizens. 
It's  the  justice  you  can  only  buy;  it's  the  foot  of  Kruger 
on  the  necks  of  the  subjects  of  his  suzerain;  it's  eating 
dirt  as  Englishmen  have  never  had  to  eat  it  anywhere  in 
the  range  of  the  Seven  Seas.  And  when  they  catch  Dr. 
Jim,  it  '11  be  ten  times  worse.  Yes,  it  '11  be  at  Doornkop, 
unless —  But,  no,  they'll  track  him,  trap  him,  get  him  now. 
Johannesburg  wasn't  ready.  Only  yesterday  I  had  a  cable 
that — "  he  stopped  short  .  .  .  "but  they  weren't  ready. 
They  hadn't  guns  enough,  or  something;  and  Englishmen 
aren't  good  conspirators,  not  by  a  damned  sight!  Now 
it  '11  be  the  old  Majuba  game  all  over  again.  You'll  see." 

"It  certainly  will  set  things  back.  Your  last  state  will 
be  worse  than  your  first,"  remarked  Stafford. 

Rudyard  Byng  drained  off  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water 
at  a  gulp  almost,  as  Stafford  watched  him  with  inward 
adverse  comment,  for  he  never  touched  wine  or  spirits 
save  at  meal-time,  and  the  between-meal  swizzle  revolted 
his  aesthetic  sense.  Byng  put  down  the  glass  very  slowly, 
gazing  straight  before  him  for  a  moment  without  speak- 
ing. Then  he  looked  round.  There  was  no  one  very  near, 
though  curious  faces  were  turned  in  his  direction,  as  the 
grim  news  of  the  Raid  was  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth. 
He  came  up  close  to  Stafford  and  touched  his  chest  with 
a  firm  forefinger. 

"Every  egg  in  the  basket  is  broken,  Stafford.  I'm  sure 
of  that.  Dr.  Jim  '11  never  get  in  now;  and  there'll  be  no 
&ufs  &  la  coque  for  breakfast.  But  there's  an  pmelette  to 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

be  got  out  of  the  mess,  if  the  dief  doesn't  turn  up  his  nose 
too  high.  After  all,  what  has  brought  things  to  this  pass? 
Why,  mean,  low  tyranny  and  injustice.  Why,  just  a 
narrow,  jealous  race-hatred  which  makes  helots  of  British 
men.  Simple  farmers,  the  sentimental  newspapers  call 
them — simple  Machiavellis  in  veldschoen!"  * 

Stafford  nodded  assent.  "But  England  is  a  very  con- 
ventional chef"  he  replied.  "She  likes  the  eggs  for  her 
omelette  broken  in  the  orthodox  way." 

' '  She's  not  so  particular  where  the  eggs  come  from,  is  she  ?" 

Stafford  smiled  as  he  answered:  "There'll  be  a  good 
many  people  in  England  who  won't  sleep  to-night — some 
because  they  want  Jameson  to  get  in;  some  because  they 
don't;  but  most  because  they're  thinking  of  the  millions 
of  British  money  locked  up  in  the  Rand,  with  Kruger 
standing  over  it  with  a  sjambok,  which  he'll  use.  Last 
night  at  the  opera  we  had  a  fine  example  of  presence  of 
mind,  when  a  lady  burst  into  flames  on  the  stage.  That 
spirited  South  African  prima  donna,  the  Transvaal,  is 
in  flames.  I  wonder  if  she  really  will  be  saved,  and  who 
will  save  her,  and — ' 

A  light,  like  the  sun,  broke  over  the  gloomy  and  rather 
haggard  face  of  Rudyard  Byng,  and  humour  shot  up  into 
his  eyes.  He  gave  a  low,  generous  laugh,  as  he  said  with 
a  twinkle:  "And  whether  he  does  it  at  some  expense  to 
himself — with  his  own  overcoat,  or  with  some  one  else's 
cloak.  Is  that  what  you  want  to  say?" 

All  at  once  the  personal  element,  so  powerful  in  most 
of  us — even  in  moments  when  interests  are  in  existence 
so  great  that  they  should  obliterate  all  others — came  to 
the  surface.  For  a  moment  it  almost  made  Byng  forget 
the  crisis  which  had  come  to  a  land  where  he  had  done 
all  that  was  worth  doing,  so  far  in  his  life;  which  had 
burned  itself  into  his  very  soul;  which  drew  him,  sleep- 
ing or  waking,  into  its  arms  of  memory  and  longing. 

*  A  glossary  of  South  African  words  will  be  found  at  the  end 
Of  the  book, 


THE    UNDERGROUND    WORLD 

He  had  read  only  one  paper  that  morning,  and  it  —  the 
latest  attempt  at  sensational  journalism  —  had  so  made 
him  blush  at  the  flattering  references  to  himself  in  relation 
to  the  incident  at  the  opera,  that  he  had  opened  no  other. 
He  had  left  his  chambers  to  avoid  the  telegrams  and  notes 
of  congratulation  which  were  arriving  in  great  numbers  .  He 
had  gone  for  his  morning  ride  in  Battersea  Park  instead  of 
the  Row  to  escape  observation;  had  afterwards  spent  two 
hours  at  the  house  he  was  building  in  Park  Lane;  had 
then  come  to  the  club,  where  he  had  encountered  Ian 
Stafford  and  had  heard  the  news  which  overwhelmed  him. 

"Well,  an  opera-cloak  did  the  work  better  than  an 
overcoat  would  have  done,"  Stafford  answered,  laughing. 
"It  was  a  flash  of  real  genius  to  think  of  it.  You  did 
think  it  all  out  in  the  second,  didn't  you?" 

Stafford  looked  at  him  curiously,  for  he  wondered  if 
the  choice  of  a  soft  cloak  which  could  more  easily  be 
wrapped  round  the  burning  woman  than  an  overcoat  was 
accidental,  or  whether  it  was  the  product  of  a  mind  of 
unusual  decision. 

Byng  puffed  out  a  great  cloud  of  smoke  and  laughed 
again  quietly  as  he  replied: 

"Well,  I've  had  a  good  deal  of  lion  and  rhinoceros 
shooting  in  my  time,  and  I've  had  to  make  up  my 
mind  pretty  quick  now  and  then;  so  I  suppose  it  gets 
to  be  a  habit.  You  don't  stop  to  think  when  the  trouble's 
on  you;  you  think  as  you  go.  If  I'd  stopped  to  think, 
I'd  have  funked  the  whole  thing,  I  suppose  —  jumping 
from  that  box  onto  the  stage,  and  grabbing  a  lady  in 
my  arms,  all  in  the  open,  as  it  were.  But  that  wouldn't 
have  been  the  natural  man.  The  natural  man  that's  in 
most  of  us,  even  when  we're  not  very  clever,  does  things 
right.  It's  when  the  conventional  man  comes  in  and 
says,  Let  us  consider,  that  we  go  wrong.  By  Jingo, 
Al'mah  was  as  near  having  her  beauty  spoiled  as  any 
woman  ever  was;  but  she's  only  got  a  few  nasty  burns 
pn  the  arm  and  has  singed  her  hair  a  little," 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"You've  seen  her  to-day,  then?" 

Stafford  looked  at  him  with  some  curiosity,  for  the  event 
was  one  likely  to  rouse  a  man's  interest  in  a  woman. 
Al'mah  was  unmarried,  so  far  as  the  world  knew,  and  a 
man  of  Byng's  kind,  if  not  generally  inflammable,  was 
very  likely  to  be  swept  off  his  feet  by  some  unusual  woman 
in  some  unusual  circumstance.  Stafford  had  never  seen 
Rudyard  Byng  talk  to  any  woman  but  Jasmine  for  more 
than  five  minutes  at  a  time,  though  hundreds  of  eager  and 
avaricious  eyes  had  singled  him  out  for  attention;  and, 
as  it  seemed  absurd  that  any  one  should  build  a  palace 
in  Park  Lane  to  live  in  by  himself,  the  glances  sent  in  his 
direction  from  many  quarters  had  not  been  without  hope- 
fulness. And  there  need  not  have  been,  and  there  was 
not,  any  loss  of  dignity  on  the  part  of  match-making 
mothers  in  angling  for  him,  for  his  family  was  quite  good 
enough;  his  origin  was  not  obscure,  and  his  upbringing 
was  adequate.  His  external  ruggedness  was  partly  natural ; 
but  it  was  also  got  from  the  bitter  rough  life  he  had  lived 
for  so  many  years  in  South  Africa  before  he  had  fallen 
on  his  feet  at  Kimberley  and  Johannesburg. 

As  for  "strange  women,"  during  the  time  that  had 
passed  since  his  return  to  England  there  had  never  been 
any  sign  of  loose  living.  So,  to  Stafford's  mind,  Byng  was 
the  more  likely  to  be  swept  away  on  a  sudden  flood  that 
would  bear  him  out  to  the  sea  of  matrimony.  He  had 
put  his  question  out  of  curiosity,  and  he  had  not  to  wait 
for  a  reply.  It  came  frankly  and  instantly: 

"Why,  I  was  at  Al'mah's  house  in  Bruton  Street  at  eight 
o'clock  this  morning — with  the  milkman  and  the  newsboy; 
and  you  wouldn't  believe  it,  but  I  saw  her,  too.  She'd 
been  up  since  six  o'clock,  she  said.  Couldn't  sleep  for 
excitement  and  pain,  but  looking  like  a  pansy  blossom 
all  the  same,  rigged  out  as  pretty  as  could  be  in  her 
boudoir,  and  a  nurse  doing  the  needful.  It's  an  odd  dark 
kind  of  beauty  she  has,  with  those  full  lips  and  the  heavy 
eyebrows.  Well,  it  was  a  bull  in  u  china-shop,  as  you 


THE    UNDERGROUND    WORLD 

might  judge — and  thank  you  kindly,  Mr.  Byng,  with 
such  a  jolly  laugh,  and  ever  and  ever  and  ever  so  grateful, 
and  so  wonderfully — thoughtful,  I  think,  was  the  word; 
as  though  one  had  planned  it  all.  And  wouldn't  I  stay 
to  breakfast?  And  not  a  bit  stagey  or  actressy,  and 
rather  what  you  call  an  uncut  diamond — a  gem  in  her 
way,  but  not  fine  fleur,  not  exactly.  A  touch  of  the  karoo, 
or  the  prairie,  or  the  salt-bush  plains  in  her,  but  a  good 
chap  altogether;  and  I'm  glad  I  was  in  it  last  night  with 
her.  I  laughed  a  lot  at  breakfast — why  yes,  I  stayed  to 
breakfast.  Laugh  before  breakfast  and  cry  before  sup- 
per, that's  the  proverb,  isn't  it?  And  I'm  crying,  all 
right,  and  there's  weeping  down  on  the  Rand  too." 

As  he  spoke  Stafford  made  inward  comment  on  the 
story  being  told  to  him,  so  patently  true  and  honest  in 
every  particular.  It  was  rather  contradictory  and  un- 
reasonable, however,  to  hear  this  big,  shy,  rugged  fellow 
taking  exception,  however  delicately  and  by  inference 
only,  to  the  lack  of  high  refinement,  to  the  want  of  fine 
fleur,  in  Al'mah's  personality.  It  did  not  occur  to  him 
that  Byng  was  the  kind  of  man  who  would  be  comparing 
Jasmine's  quite  wonderful  delicacy,  perfumed  grace,  and 
exquisite  adaptability  with  the  somewhat  coarser  beauty 
and  genius  of  the  singer.  It  seemed  natural  that  Byng 
should  turn  to  a  personality  more  in  keeping  with  his 
own,  more  likely  to  make  him  perfectly  at  ease  men- 
tally and  physically. 

Stafford  judged  Jasmine  by  his  own  conversations  with 
her,  when  he  was  so  acutely  alive  to  the  fact  that  she  was 
the  most  naturally  brilliant  woman  he  had  ever  known 
or  met;  and  had  capacities  for  culture  and  attainment, 
as  she  had  gifts  of  discernment  and  skill  in  thought,  in 
marked  contrast  to  the  best  of  the  ladies  of  their  world. 
To  him  she  had  naturally  shown  only  the  one  side  of  her 
nature — she  adapted  herself  to  him  as  she  did  to  every 
one  else;  she  had  put  him  always  at  an  advantage,  and, 
in  doing  so,  herself  as  well. 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Full  of  dangerous  coquetry  he  knew  her  to  be — she  had 
been  so  from  a  child;  and  though  this  was  culpable  in  a  way, 
he  and  most  others  had  made  more  than  due  allowance, 
because  mother-care  and  loving  surveillance  had  been 
withdrawn  so  soon.  For  years  she  had  been  the  spoiled 
darling  of  her  father  and  brothers  until  her  father  married 
again;  and  then  it  had  been  too  late  to  control  her.  The 
wonder  was  that  she  had  turned  out  so  well,  that  she  had 
been  so  studious,  so  determined,  so  capable.  Was  it  be- 
cause she  had  unusual  brain  and  insight  into  human  nature, 
and  had  been  wise  and  practical  enough  to  see  that  there 
was  a  point  where  restraint  must  be  applied,  and  so  had 
kept  herself  free  from  blame  or  deserved  opprobrium,  if 
not  entirely  from  criticism?  In  the : day  when  girls  were 
not  in  the  present  sense  emancipated,  she  had  the  savoir 
faire  and  the  poise  of  a  married  woman  of  thirty.  Yet 
she  was  delicate,  fresh,  and  flower-like,  and  very  amusing, 
in  a  way  which  delighted  men;  and  she  did  not  antagonize 
women. 

Stafford  had  ruled  Byng  out  of  consideration  where  she 
was  concerned.  He  had  not  heard  her  father's  remark  of 
the  night  before,  "Jasmine  will  marry  that  nabob — you'll 
see." 

He  was,  however,  recalled  to  the  strange  possibilities 
of  life  by  a  note  which  was  handed  to  Byng  as  they  stood 
before  the  club-room  fire.  He  could  not  help  but  see — 
he  knew  the  envelope,  and  no  other  handwriting  was  like 
Jasmine's,  that  long,  graceful,  sliding  hand.  Byng 
turned  it  over  before  opening  it. 

"Hello,"  he  said,  "I'm  caught.  It's  a  woman's 
hand.  I  wonder  how  she  knew  I  was  here." 

Mentally  Stafford  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  said  to 
himself:  "  If  Jasmine  wanted  to  know  where  he  was,  she'd 
find  out.  I  wonder — I  wonder." 

He  watched  Byng,  over  whose  face  passed  a  pleased 
smile. 

"Why,"  Byng  said,  almost  eagerly,  "it's  from  Miss 


THE    UNDERGROUND    WORLD 

Grenfel — wants  me  to  go  and  tell  her  about  Jameson  and 
the  Raid." 

He  paused  for  an  instant,  and  his  face  clouded  again. 
"The  first  thing  I  must  do  is  to  send  cables  to  Johannes- 
burg. Perhaps  there  are  some  waiting  for  me  at  my  rooms. 
I'll  go  and  see.  I  don't  know  why  I  didn't  get  news  sooner. 
I  generally  get  word  before  the  Government.  There's 
something  wrong  somewhere.  Somebody  has  had  me." 

"If  I  were  you  I'd  go  to  our  friend  first.  When  I'm 
told  to  go  at  once,  I  go.  She  wouldn't  like  cablegrams 
and  other  things  coming  between  you  and  her  command 
— even  when  Dr.  Jim's  ricling  out  of  Matabeleland  on 
the  Rand  for  to  free  the  slaves." 

Stafford's  words  were  playful,  but  there  was,  almost 
unknown  to  himself,  a  strange  little  note  of  discontent 
and  irony  behind. 

Byng  laughed.  "But  I'll  be  able  to  tell  her  more,  per- 
haps, if  I  go  to  my  rooms  first." 

"You  are  going  to  see  her,  then?" 

"Certainly.  There's  nothing  to  do  till  we  get  news 
of  Jameson  at  bay  in  a  donga  or  balled  up  at  a  kopje." 
Thrusting  the  delicately  perfumed  letter  in  his  pocket,  he 
nodded,  and  was  gone. 

"I  was  going  to  see  her  myself,"  thought  Stafford, 
"but  that  settles  it.  It  will  be  easier  to  go  where  duty 
calls  instead,  since  Byng  takes  my  place.  Why,  she  told 
me  to  come  to-day  at  this  very  hour,"  he  added,  suddenly, 
and  paused  in  his  walk  towards  the  door. 

"But  I  want  no  triangular  tea-parties,"  he  continued 
to  reflect.  .  .  .  "Well,  there'll  be  work  to  do  at  the  Foreign 
Office,  that's  sure.  France,  Austria,  Russia  can  spit  out 
their  venom  now  and  look  to  their  mobilization.  And 
won't  Kaiser  William  throw  up  his  cap  if  Dr.  Jim  gets 
caught!  What  a  mess  it  will  be!  Well — well — well!" 

He  sighed,  and  went  on  his  way  brooding  darkly;   for 
he  knew  that  this  was  the  beginning  of  a  great  trial  for 
England  and  all  British  people. 
21 


CHAPTER  III 

A  DAUGHTER   OF   TYRE 

"  TLfONSIEUR  voleur!" 

*•'•*•  Jasmine  looked  at  him  again,  as  she  had  done 
the  night  before  at  the  opera,  standing  quite  confidentially 
close  to  him,  her  hand  resting  in  his  big  palm  like  a  pad 
of  rose-leaves;  while  a  delicate  perfume  greeted  his  senses. 
Byng  beamed  down  on  her,  mystified  and  eager,  yet  by 
no  means  impatient,  since  the  situation  was  one  wholly 
agreeable  to  him,  and  he  had  been  called  robber  in  his 
time  with  greater  violence  and  with  a  different  voice. 
Now  he  merely  shook  his  head  in  humorous  protest,  and 
gave  her  an  indulgent  look  of  inquiry.  Somehow  he  felt 
quite  at  home  with  her;  while  yet  he  was  abashed  by  so 
much  delicacy  and  beauty  and  bloom. 

"Why,  what  else  are  you  but  a  robber?"  she  added,  with- 
drawing her  hand  rather  quickly  from  the  too  frank 
friendliness  of  his  grasp.  "You  ran  off  with  my  opera- 
cloak  last  night,  and  a  very  pretty  and  expensive  one  it 
was." 

"Expensive  isn't  the  word,"  he  rejoined;  "it  was  un- 
purchasable." 

She  preened  herself  a  little  at  the  phrase.  "I  returned 
your  overcoat  this  morning — before  breakfast;  and  I 
didn't  even  receive  a  note  of  thanks  for  it.  I  might 
properly  have  kept  it  till  my  opera-cloak  came  back." 

"It's  never  coming  back,"  he  answered;  "and  as  for 
my  overcoat,  I  didn't  know  it  had  been  returned.  I  was 
out  all  the  morning." 

"In  the  Row?"  she  asked,  with  an  undertone  of  mean- 
ing. 

22 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   TYRE 

"Well,  not  exactly.     I  was  out  looking  for  your  cloak." 

"Without  breakfast?"  she  urged  with  a  whimsical 
glance. 

"Well,  I  got  breakfast  while  I  was  looking." 

"And  while  you  were  indulging  material  tastes,  the 
cloak  hid  itself — or  went  out  and  hanged  itself?" 

He  settled  himself  comfortably  in  the  huge  chair  which 
seemed  made  especially  for  him.  With  a  rare  sense  for 
details  she  had  had  this  very  chair  brought  from  the 
library  beyond,  where  her  stepmother,  in  full  view,  was 
writing  letters.  He  laughed  at  her  words — a  deep,  round 
chuckle  it  was. 

"It  didn't  exactly  hang  itself;  it  lay  over  the  back  of 
a  Chesterfield  where  I  could  see  it  and  breakfast  too." 

"A  Chesterfield  in  a  breakfast-room !  That's  more  like 
the  furniture  of  a  boudoir." 

"Well,  it  was  a  boudoir."  He  blushed  a  little  in  spite 
of  himself. 

"Ah!  .  .  .  Al'mah's?  Well,  she  owed  you  a  breakfast 
at  least,  didn't  she?" 

"Not  so  good  a  breakfast  as  I  got." 

"That  is  putting  rather  a  low  price  on  her  life,"  she  re- 
joined; and  a  little  smile  of  triumph  gathered  at  her  pink 
lips,  lips  a  little  like  those  Nelson  loved  not  wisely  yet 
not  too  well,  if  love  is  worth  while  at  all. 

"I  didn't  see  where  you  were  leading  me,"  he  gasped, 
helplessly.  "I  give  up.  I  can't  talk  in  your  way." 

"What  is  my  way?"  she  pleaded  with  a  little  wave  of 
laughter  in  her  eyes. 

"Why,  no  frontal  attacks — only  flank  movements,  and 
getting  round  the  kopjes,  with  an  ambush  in  a  drift  here 
and  there." 

"That  sounds  like  Paul  Kruger  or  General  Joubert," 
she  cried  in  mock  dismay.  "Isn't  that  what  they  are 
doing  with  Dr.  Jameson,  perhaps?" 

His  face  clouded.  Storm  gathered  slowly  in  his  eyes, 
a  grimness  suddenly  settled  in  his  strong  jaw.  "Yes," 
3  23 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

he  answered,  presently,  "that's  what  they  will  be  doing; 
and  if  I'm  not  mistaken  they'll  catch  Jameson  just  as  you 
caught  me  just  now.  They'll  catch  him  at  Doornkop  or 
thereabouts,  if  I  know  myself — and  Oom  Paul." 

Her  face  flushed  prettily  with  excitement.  "I  want  to 
hear  all  about  this  empire-making,  or  losing,  affair;  but 
there  are  other  things  to  be  settled  first.  There's  my 
opera-cloak  and  the  breakfast  in  the  prima  donna's 
boudoir,  and — " 

"But,  how  did  you  know  it  was  Al'mah?"  he  asked 
blankly. 

"Why,  where  else  would  my  cloak  be?"  she  inquired 
with  a  little  laugh.  "Not  at  the  costumier's  or  the  clean- 
er's so  soon.  But,  all  this  horrid  flippancy  aside,  do  you 
really  think  I  should  have  talked  like  this,  or  been  so 
exigent  about  the  cloak,  if  I  hadn't  known  everything; 
if  I  hadn't  been  to  see  Al'mah,  and  spent  an  hour  with  her, 
and  knew  that  she  was  recovering  from  that  dreadful 
shock  very  quickly?  But  could  you  think  me  so  inhuman 
and  unwomanly  as  not  to  have  asked  about  her?" 

"I  wouldn't  be  in  a  position  to  investigate  much  when 
you  were  talking — not  critically,"  he  replied,  boldly.  "I 
would  only  be  thinking  that  everything  you  said  was  all 
right.  It  wouldn't  occur  to  me  to — " 

She  half  closed  her  eyes,  looking  at  him  with  languish- 
ing humour.  "  Now  you  must  please  remember  that  I  am 
quite  young,  and  may  have  my  head  turned,  and — " 

"It  wouldn't  alter  my  mind  about  you  if  you  turned 
your  head,"  he  broke  in,  gallantly,  with  a  desperate  at- 
tempt to  take  advantage  of  an  opportunity,  and  try  his 
hand  at  a  game  entirely  new  to  him. 

There  was  an  instant's  pause,  in  which  she  looked  at 
him  with  what  was  half-assumed,  half-natural  shyness. 
His  attempt  to  play  with  words  was  so  full  of  nature,  and 
had  behind  it  such  apparent  admiration,  that  the  unspoiled 
part  of  her  was  suddenly  made  self-conscious,  however 
agreeably  so.  Then  she  said  to  him: 
24 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    TYRE 

"I  won't  say  you  were  brave  last  night — that  doesn't 
touch  the  situation.  It  wasn't  bravery,  of  course ;  it  was 
splendid  presence  of  mind  which  could  only  come  to  a 
man  with  great  decision  of  character.  I  don't  think  the 
newspapers  put  it  at  all  in  the  right  way.  It  wasn't  like 
saving  a  child  from  the  top  of  a  burning  building,  was  it?" 

"There  was  nothing  in  it  at  all  where  I  was  concerned," 
he  replied.  "I've  been  living  a  life  for  fifteen  years  where 
you  had  to  move  quick — by  instinct,  as  it  were.  There's 
no  virtue  in  it.  I  was  just  a  little  quicker  than  a  thousand 
other  men  present,  and  I  was  nearer  to  the  stage." 

"Not  nearer  than  my  father  or  Mr.  Stafford." 

"They  had  a  bigger  shock  than  I  had,  I  suppose.  They 
got  struck  numb  for  a  second.  I'm  a  coarser  kind.  I 
have  seen  lots  of  sickening  things;  and  I  suppose  they 
don't  stun  me.  We  get  callous,  I  fancy,  we  veld-rangers 
and  adventurers." 

"You  seem  sensitive  enough  to  fine  emotions,"  she 
said,  almost  shyly.  "You  were  completely  absorbed, 
carried  away,  by  Al'mah's  singing  last  night.  There 
wasn't  a  throb  of  music  that  escaped  you,  I  should  think." 

"Well,  that's  primary  instinct.  Music  is  for  the  most 
savage  natures.  The  boor  that  couldn't  appreciate  the 
Taj  Mahal,  or  the  sculpture  of  Michael  Angelo,  might  be 
swept  off  his  feet  by  the  music  of  a  master,  though  he 
couldn't  understand  its  story.  Besides,  I've  carried  a 
banjo  and  a  cornet  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  with  me.  I 
saved  my  life  with  the  cornet  once.  A  lion  got  inside 
my  zareba  in  Rhodesia.  I  hadn't  my  gun  within  reach, 
but  I'd  been  playing  the  cornet,  and  just  as  he  was  crouch- 
ing I  blew  a  blast  from  it — one  of  those  jarring  discords 
of  Wagner  in  the  "  Gotterdammerung " — and  he  turned 
tail  and  got  away  into  the  bush  with  a  howl.  Hearing 
gets  to  be  the  most  acute  of  all  the  senses  with  the  pioneer. 
If  you've  ever  been  really  dying  of  thirst,  and  have  reached 
water  again,  its  sounds  become  wonderful  to  you  ever 
after  that — the  trickle  of  a  creek,  the  wash  of  a  wave  on 
25 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

the  shore,  the  drip  on  a  tin  roof,  the  drop  over  a  fall,  the 
swish  of  a  rainstorm.  It's  the  same  with  birds  and  trees. 
And  trees  all  make  different  sounds — that's  the  shape  of 
the  leaves.  It's  all  music,  too." 

Her  breath  came  quickly  with  pleasure  at  the  imagina- 
tion and  observation  of  his  words.  "So  it  wasn't  strange 
that  you  should  be  ravished  by  Al'mah's  singing  last  night, 
was  it?"  She  looked  at  him  keenly.  "Isn't  it  curious 
that  such  a  marvellous  gift  should  be  given  to  a  woman 
who  in  other  respects — "  she  paused. 

"Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean.  She's  so  untrained  in 
lots  of  ways.  That's  what  I  was  saying  to  Stafford  a 
little  while  ago.  They  live  in  a  world  of  their  own,  the 
stage  people.  There's  always  a  kind  of  irresponsibility. 
The  habit  of  letting  themselves  go  in  their  art,  I  suppose, 
makes  them,  in  real  life,  throw  things  down  so  hard  when 
they  don't  like  them.  Living  at  high  pressure  is  an  art 
like  music.  It  alters  the  whole  equilibrium,  I  suppose.  A 
woman  like  Al'mah  would  commit  suicide,  or  kill  a  man, 
without  realizing  the  true  significance  of  it  all." 

"Were  you  thinking  that  when  you  breakfasted  with 
her?" 

"Yes,  when  she  was  laughing  and  jesting — and  when 
she  kissed  me  good-bye." 

' '  When — she — kissed  you — good-bye  ? ' ' 

Jasmine  drew  back,  then  half-glanced  towards  her  step- 
mother in  the  other  room.  She  was  only  twenty- two,  and 
though  her  emancipation  had  been  accomplished  in  its 
way  somewhat  in  advance  of  her  generation,  it  had  its 
origin  in  a  very  early  period  of  her  life,  when  she  had  been 
allowed  to  read  books  of  verse — Shelley,  Byron,  Shake- 
speare, Verlaine,  Rossetti,  Swinburne,  and  many  others — 
unchallenged  and  unguided.  The  understanding  of  things, 
reserved  for  "the  wise  and  prudent,"  had  been  at  first 
vaguely  and  then  definitely  conveyed  to  her  by  slow  but 
subtle  means — an  apprehension  from  instinct,  not  from 
knowledge.  There  had  never  been  a  shock  to  her  mind. 
26 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    TYRE 

The  knowledge  of  things  had  grown  imperceptibly,  and 
most  of  life's  ugly  meanings  were  known — at  a  great  dis- 
tance, to  be  sure,  but  still  known.  Yet  there  came  a  sud- 
den half-angry  feeling  when  she  heard  Rudyard  Byng  say, 
so  loosely,  that  Al'mah  had  kissed  him.  Was  it  possible, 
then,  that  a  man,  that  any  man,  thought  she  might  hear 
such  things  without  resentment;  that  any  man  thought 
her  to  know  so  much  of  life  that  it  did  not  matter  what 
was  said?  Did  her  outward  appearance,  then,  bear  such 
false  evidence? 

He  did  not  understand  quite,  yet  he  saw  that  she  mis- 
understood, and  he  handled  the  situation  with  a  tact 
which  seemed  hardly  to  belong  to  a  man  of  his  training 
and  calibre. 

"She  thought  no  more  of  kissing  me,"  he  continued, 
presently,  in  a  calm  voice — "a  man  she  had  seen  only 
once"  before,  and  was  not  likely  to  see  again,  than  would 
a  child  of  five.  It  meant  nothing  more  to  her  than  kiss- 
ing Fanato  on  the  stage.  It  was  pure  impulse.  She  for- 
got it  as  soon  as  it  was  done.  It  was  her  way  of  show- 
ing gratitude.  Somewhat  unconventional,  wasn't  it? 
But  then,  she  is  a  little  Irish,  a  little  Spanish,  and  the 
rest  Saxon;  and  she  is  all  artist  and  bohemian." 

Jasmine's  face  cleared,  and  her  equilibrium  was  in- 
stantly restored.  She  was  glad  she  had  misunderstood. 
Yet  Al'mah  had  not  kissed  her  when  she  left,  while  ex- 
pressing gratitude,  too.  There  was  a  difference.  She 
turned  the  subject,  saying:  "Of  course,  she  insists  on 
sending  me  a  new  cloak,  and  keeping  the  other  as  a 
memento.  It  was  rather  badly  singed,  wasn't  it?" 

"It  did  its  work  well,  and  it  deserves  an  honoured  home. 
Do  you  know  that  even  as  I  flung  the  cloak  round  her,  in 
the  excitement  of  the  moment  I  'sensed,'  as  my  young 
nephew  says,  the  perfume  you  use." 

He  lifted  his  hand,  conscious  that  his  fingers  still  car- 
ried some  of  that  delicate  perfume  which  her  fingers  left 
there  as  they  lay  in  his  palm  when  she  greeted  him  on  his 
27 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

entrance.  "It  was  like  an  incense  from  the  cloak,  as  it 
blanketed  the  flames.  Strange,  wasn't  it,  that  the  under- 
sense  should  be  conscious  of  that  little  thing,  while  the 
over-sense  was  adding  a  sensational  postscript  to  the 
opera?" 

She  smiled  in  a  pleased  way.  "Do  you  like  the  per- 
fume? I  really  use  very  little  of  it." 

"  It's  like  no  other.  It  starts  a  kind  of  cloud  of  ideas 
floating.  I  don't  know  how  to  describe  it.  I  imagine 
myself — " 

She  interrupted,  laughing  merrily.  "My  brother  says 
it  always  makes  him  angry,  and  Ian  Stafford  calls  it '  The 
Wild  Tincture  of  Time' — frivolously  and  sillily  says  that 
it  comes  from  a  bank  whereon  the  'wild  thyme'  grows! 
But  now,  I  want  to  ask  you  many  questions.  We  have 
been  mentally  dancing,  while  down  beyond  the  Lim- 
popo—" 

His  demeanour  instantly  changed,  and  she  noted  the 
look  of  power  and  purpose  coming  into  the  rather  boyish 
and  good-natured,  the  rash  and  yet  determined,  face. 
It  was  not  quite  handsome.  The  features  were  not  regu- 
lar, the  forehead  was  perhaps  a  little  too  low,  and  the 
hair  grew  very  thick,  and  would  have  been  a  vast  mane 
if  it  had  not  been  kept  fairly  close  by  his  valet.  This 
valet  was  Krool,  a  half-caste — Hottentot  and  Boer — whom 
he  had  rescued  from  Lobengula  in  the  Matabele  war, 
and  who  had  in  his  day  been  ship-steward,  barber,  cook, 
guide,  and  native  recruiter.  Krool  had  attached  himself 
to  Byng,  and  he  would  not  be  shaken  off  even  when  his 
master  came  home  to  England. 

Looking  at  her  visitor  with  a  new  sense  of  observation 
alive  in  her,  Jasmine  saw  the  inherent  native  drowsiness 
of  the  nature,  the  love  of  sleep  and  good  living,  the  healthy 
primary  desires,  the  striving,  adventurous,  yet,  in  one 
sense,  unambitious  soul.  The  very  cleft  in  the  chin,  like 
the  alluring  dimple  of  a  child's  cheek,  enlarged  and  hard- 
ened, was  suggestive  of  animal  beauty,  with  its  parallel 
28 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   TYRE 

suggestion  of  indolence.  Yet,  somehow,  too  ample  as  he 
was  both  in  fact  and  by  suggestion  to  the  imagination, 
there  was  an  apparent  underlying  force,  a  capacity  to  do 
huge  things  when  once  roused.  He  had  been  roused  in 
his  short  day.  The  life  into  which  he  had  been  thrown, 
with  men  of  vaster  ambition  and  much  more  selfish  ends 
than  his  own,  had  stirred  him  to  prodigies  of  activity  in 
those  strenuous,  wonderful,  electric  days  when  gold  and 
diamonds  changed  the  hard-bitten,  wearied  prospector, 
who  had  doggedly  delved  till  he  had  forced  open  the  hand 
of  the  Spirit  of  the  Earth  and  caught  the  treasure  that 
flowed  forth,  into  a  millionaire,  into  a  conqueror,  with  the 
world  at  his  feet.  He  had  been  of  those  who,  for  many  a 
night  and  many  a  year,  eating  food  scarce  fit  for  Kaffirs, 
had,  in  poverty  and  grim  endeavour,  seen  the  sun  rise  and 
fall  over  the  Magaliesberg  range,  hope  alive  in  the  morn- 
ing and  dead  at  night.  He  had  faced  the  devilish  storms 
which  swept  the  high  veld  with  lightning  and  the  thunder- 
stone,  striking  men  dead  as  they  fled  for  shelter  to  the 
boulders  of  some  barren,  mocking  kopje;  and  he  had  had 
the  occasional  wild  nights  of  carousal,  when  the  miseries 
and  robberies  of  life  and  time  and  the  ceaseless  weariness 
and  hope  deferred,  were  forgotten. 

It  was  all  there  in  his  face — the  pioneer  endeavour,  the 
reckless  effort,  the  gambler's  anxiety,  the  self-indulgence, 
the  crude  passions,  with  a  far-off,  vague  idealism,  the  self- 
ish outlook,  and  yet  great  breadth  of  feeling,  with  narrow- 
ness of  individual  purpose.  The  rough  life,  the  sordid 
struggle,  had  left  their  mark,  and  this  easy,  coaxing,  com- 
fortable life  of  London  had  not  covered  it  up — not  yet. 
He  still  belonged  to  other — and  higher — spheres. 

There  was  a  great  contrast  between  him  and  Ian  Staf- 
ford. Ian  was  handsome,  exquisitely  refined,  lean  and 
graceful  of  figure,  with  a  mind  which  saw  the  end  of  your 
sentences  from  the  first  word,  with  a  skill  of  speech  like 
a  Damascus  blade,  with  knowledge  of  a  half-dozen  lan- 
guages. Ian  had  an  allusiveness  of  conversation  which 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

made  human  intercourse  a  perpetual  entertainment,  and 
Jasmine's  intercourse  with  him  a  delight  which  lingered 
after  his  going  until  his  coming  again.  The  contrast  was 
prodigious — and  perplexing,  for  Rudyard  Byng  had  qual- 
ities which  compelled  her  interest.  She  sighed  as  she  re- 
flected. 

"I  suppose  you  can't  get  three  millions  all  to  yourself 
with  your  own  hands  without  missing  a  good  deal  and 
getting  a  good  deal  you  could  do  without,"  she  said  to 
herself,  as  he  wonderingly  interjected  the  exclamation: 

"  Now,  what  do  you  know  of  the  Limpopo?  I'll  venture 
there  isn't  another  woman  in  England  who  even  knows 
the  name." 

"I  always  had  a  thirst  for  travel,  and  I've  read  endless 
books  of  travel  and  adventure,"  she  replied.  "I'd  have 
been  an  explorer,  or  a  Cecil  Rhodes,  if  I  had  been  a  man." 

"Can  you  ride?"  he  asked,  looking  wonderingly  at  her 
tiny  hand,  her  slight  figure,  her  delicate  face  with  its  al- 
most impossible  pink  and  white. 

"Oh,  man  of  little  faith!"  she  rejoined.  "I  can't  re- 
member when  I  didn't  ride.  First  a  Shetland  pony,  and 
now  at  last  I've  reached  Zambesi — such  a  wicked  dear." 

"Zambesi — why  Zambesi?  One  would  think  you  were 
South  African." 

She  enjoyed  his  mystification.  Then  she  grew  serious 
and  her  eyes  softened.  "  I  had  a  friend — a  girl,  older  than 
I.  She  married.  Well,  he's  an  earl  now,  the  Earl  of 
Tynemouth,  but  he  was  the  elder  son  then,  and  wild  for 
sport.  They  went  on  their  honeymoon  to  shoot  in 
Africa,  and  they  visited  the  falls  of  the  Zambesi.  She, 
my  friend,  was  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  chasm — per- 
haps you  know  it — not  far  from  Livingstone's  tree,  be- 
tween the  streams.  It  was  October,  and  the  river  was 
low.  She  put  up  her  big  parasol.  A  gust  of  wind 
suddenly  caught  it,  and  instead  of  letting  the  thing  fly, 
she  hung  on,  and  was  nearly  swept  into  the  chasm.  A 
man  with  them  pulled  her  back  in  time — but  she  hung 
30 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    TYRE 

on  to  that  red  parasol.  Only  when  it  was  all  over  did  she 
realize  what  had  really  happened.  Well,  when  she  came 
back  to  England,  as  a  kind  of  thank-offering  she  gave  me 
her  father's  best  hunter.  That  was  like  her,  too;  she 
could  always  make  other  people  generous.  He  is  a  beauti- 
ful Satan,  and  I  rechristened  him  Zambesi.  I  wanted  the 
red  parasol,  too,  but  Alice  Tynemouth  wouldn't  give  it  to 
me." 

"So  she  gave  it  to  the  man  who  pulled  her  back.  Why 
not?" 

"How  do  you  know  she  did  that?" 

"Well,  it  hangs  in  an  honoured  place  in  Stafford's 
chambers.  I  conjecture  right,  do  I?" 

Her  eyes  darkened  slowly,  and  a  swift-passing  shadow 
covered  her  faintly  smiling  lips;  but  she  only  said,  "You 
see  he  was  entitled  to  it,  wasn't  he?"  To  herself,  however, 
she  whispered,  "Neither  of  them — neither — ever  told  me 
that." 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  a  footman  came 
forward  to  Rudyard  Byng.  "If  you  please,  sir,  your  ser- 
vant says,  will  you  see  him.  There  is  news  from  South 
Africa." 

Byng  rose,  but  Jasmine  intervened.  "No,  tell  him  to 
come  here,"  she  said  to  the  footman.  "Mayn't  he?"  she 
asked. 

Byng  nodded,  and  remained  standing.  He  seemed 
suddenly  lost  to  her  presence,  and  with  head  dropped 
forward  looked  into  space,  engrossed,  intense. 

Jasmine  studied  him  as  an  artist  would  study  a  picture, 
and  decided  that  he  had  elements  of  the  unusual,  and  was 
a  distinct  personality.  Though  rugged,  he  was  not  un- 
couth, and  there  was  nothing  of  the  nouveau  riche  about 
him.  He  did  not  wear  a  ring  or  scarf-pin,  his  watch-chain 
was  simple  and  inconspicuous  enough  for  a  school-boy — 
and  he  was  worth  three  million  pounds,  with  a  palace 
building  in  Park  Lane  and  a  feudal  castle  in  Wales  leased 
for  a  period  of  years.  There  was  nothing  greatly  striking 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

in  his  carriage;  indeed,  he  did  not  make  enough  of  his 
height  and  bulk;  but  his  eye  was  strong  and  clear,  his 
head  was  powerful,  and  his  quick  smile  was  very  winning. 
Yet — yet,  he  was  not  the  type  of  man  who,  to  her  mind, 
should  have  made  three  millions  at  thirty- three.  It  did 
not  seem  to  her  that  he  was  really  representative  of  the 
great  fortune-builders — she  had  her  grandfather  and  others 
closely  in  mind.  She  had  seen  many  captains  of  industry 
and  finance  in  her  grandfather's  house,  men  mostly  silent, 
deliberate  and  taciturn,  and  showing  in  their  manner  and 
persons  the  accumulated  habits  of  patience,  force,  cease- 
less aggression  and  domination. 

Was  it  only  luck  which  had  given  Rudyard  Byng  those 
three  millions?  It  could  not  be  just  that  alone.  She 
remembered  her  grandfather  used  to  say  that  luck  was  a 
powerful  ingredient  in  the  successful  career  of  every  man, 
but  that  the  man  was  on  the  spot  to  take  the  luck,  knew 
when  to  take  it,  and  how  to  use  it.  "The  lucky  man  is 
the  man  that  sits  up  watching  for  the  windfall  while  other 
men  are  sleeping" — that  was  the  way  he  had  put  it.  So 
Rudyard  Byng,  if  lucky,  had  also  been  of  those  who  had 
grown  haggard  with  watching,  working  and  waiting;  but 
not  a  hair  of  his  head  had  whitened,  and  if  he  looked  older 
than  he  was,  still  he  was  young  enough  to  marry  the 
youngest  debutante  in  England,  and  the  prettiest  and 
best-born.  He  certainly  had  inherent  breeding.  His 
family  had  a  long  pedigree,  and  every  man  could  not  be 
as  distinguished-looking  as  Ian  Stafford — as  Ian  Stafford, 
who,  however,  had  not  three  millions  of  pounds;  who  had 
not  yet  made  his  name  and  might  never  do  so. 

She  flushed  with  anger  at  herself  that  she  should  be  so 
disloyal  to  Ian,  for  whom  she  had  pictured  a  brilliant 
future — ambassador  at  Paris  or  Berlin,  or,  if  he  chose, 
Foreign  Minister  in  Whitehall — Ian,  gracious,  diligent, 
wonderfully  trained,  waiting,  watching  for  his  luck  and 
ready  to  take  it;  and  to  carry  success,  when  it  came,  like 
a  prince  of  princelier  days.  Ian  gratified  every  sense  in 
32 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    TYRE 

her,  met  every  demand  of  an  exacting  nature,  satisfied  her 
unusually  critical  instinct,  and  was,  in  effect,  her  affianced 
husband.  Yet  it  was  so  hard  to  wait  for  luck,  for  place, 
for  power,  for  the  environment  where  she  could  do  great 
things,  could  fill  that  radiant  place  which  her  cynical  and 
melodramatic  but  powerful  and  sympathetic  grandfather 
had  prefigured  for  her.  She  had  been  the  apple  of  that 
old  man's  eye,  and  he  had  rilled  her  brain — purposely — 
with  ambitious  ideas.  He  had  done  it  when  she  was  very 
young,  because  he  had  not  long  to  stay;  and  he  had  over- 
coloured  the  pictures  in  order  that  the  impression  should 
be  vivid  and  indelible  when  he  was  gone.  He  had  meant 
to  bless,  for,  to  his  mind,  to  shine,  to  do  big  things,  to 
achieve  notoriety,  to  attain  power,  "to  make  the  band 
play  when  you  come,"  was  the  true  philosophy  of  life. 
And  as  this  philosophy,  successful  in  his  case,  was  ac- 
companied by  habits  of  life  which  would  bear  the  closest 
inspection  by  the  dean  and  chapter,  it  was  a  difficult  one 
to  meet  by  argument  or  admonition.  He  had  taught  his 
grandchild  as  successfully  as  he  had  built  the  structure  of 
his  success.  He  had  made  material  things  the  basis  of 
life's  philosophy  and  purpose;  and  if  she  was  not  wholly 
materialistic,  it  was  because  she  had  drunk  deep,  for  one 
so  young,  at  the  fountains  of  art,  poetry,  sculpture  and 
history.  For  the  last  she  had  a  passion  which  was  repre- 
sented by  books  of  biography  without  number,  and  all  the 
standard  historians  were  to  be  found  in  her  bedroom  and 
her  boudoir.  Yet,  too,  when  she  had  opportunity — when 
Lady  Tynemouth  brought  them  to  her — she  read  the  new- 
est and  most  daring  productions  of  a  school  of  French 
novelists  and  dramatists  who  saw  the  world  with  eyes 
morally  astigmatic  and  out  of  focus.  Once  she  had  re- 
marked to  Alice  Tynemouth: 

"You  say  I  dress  well,  yet  it  isn't  I.     It's  my  dress- 
maker.    I  choose  the  over-coloured  thing  three  times  out 
of  five — it  used  to  be  more  than  that.    Instinctively  I  want 
to  blaze.     It  is  the  same  in  everything.     I  need  to  be  kept 
33 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

down,  but,  alas!  I  have  my  own  way  in  everything.  I 
wish  I  hadn't,  for  my  own  good.  Yet  I  can't  brook  being 
ruled." 

To  this  Alice  had  replied:  "A  really  selfish  husband — 
not  a  difficult  thing  to  find — would  soon  keep  you  down 
sufficiently.  Then  you'd  choose  the  over-coloured  thing 
not  more  than  two  times,  perhaps  one  time,  out  of  five. 
Your  orientalism  is  only  undisciplined  self-will.  A  little 
cruelty  would  give  you  a  better  sense  of  proportion  in 
colour — and  everything  else.  You  have  orientalism,  but 
little  or  no  orientation." 

Here,  now,  standing  before  the  fire,  was  that  possible 
husband  who,  no  doubt,  was  selfish,  and  had  capacities 
for  cruelty  which  would  give  her  greater  proportion — and 
sense  of  colour.  In  Byng's  palace,  with  three  millions  be- 
hind her — she  herself  had  only  the  tenth  of  one  million — • 
she  could  settle  down  into  an  exquisitely  ordered,  beauti- 
ful, perfect  life  where  the  world  would  come  as  to  a  court, 
and— 

Suddenly  she  shuddered,  for  these  thoughts  were  sordid, 
humiliating,  and  degrading.  They  were  unbidden,  but 
still  they  came.  They  came  from  some  dark  fountain 
within  herself.  She  really  wanted — her  idealistic  self 
wanted — to  be  all  that  she  knew  she  looked,  a  flower  in 
life  and  thought.  But,  oh,  it  was  hard,  hard  for  her  to 
be  what  she  wished!  Why  should  it  be  so  hard  for  her? 

She  was  roused  by  a  voice.  ' '  Cronje !' '  it  said  in  a  deep, 
slow,  ragged  note. 

Byng's  half-caste  valet,  Krool,  sombre  of  face,  small, 
lean,  ominous,  was  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"Cronje!  .  .  .  Well?"  rejoined  Byng,  quietly,  yet  with 
a  kind  of  smother  in  the  tone. 

Krool  stretched  out  a  long,  skinny,  open  hand,  and 
slowly  closed  the  fingers  up  tight  with  a  gesture  suggestive 
of  a  trap  closing  upon  a  crushed  captive. 

"Where?"  Byng  asked,  huskily. 

"Doornkop,"  was  the  reply;  and  Jasmine,  watching 
34 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    TYRE 

closely,  fascinated  by  Krool's  taciturnity,  revolted  by  his 
immobile  face,  thought  she  saw  in  his  eyes  a  glint  of  mali- 
cious and  furtive  joy.  A  dark  premonition  suddenly 
flashed  into  her  mind  that  this  creature  would  one  day, 
somehow,  do  her  harm;  that  he  was  her  foe,  her  primal 
foe,  without  present  or  past  cause  for  which  she  was 
responsible;  but  still  a  foe — one  of  those  antipathies  fore- 
ordained, one  of  those  evil  influences  which  exist  some- 
where in  the  universe  against  every  individual  life. 

"Doornkop — what  did  I  say!"  Byng  exclaimed  to  Jas- 
mine. "I  knew  they'd  put  the  double-and-twist  on  him 
at  Doornkop,  or  some  such  place;  and  they've  done  it — 
Kruger  and  Joubert.  Englishmen  aren't  slim  enough  to 
be  conspirators.  Dr.  Jim  was  going  it  blind,  trusting 
to  good  luck,  gambling  with  the  Almighty.  It's  bury  me 
deep  now.  It's  Paul  Kruger  licking  his  chops  over  the 
savoury  mess.  '  Oh,  isn't  it  a  pretty  dish  to  set  before 
the  king!'  What  else,  Krool?" 

"Nothing,  Baas." 

"Nothing  more  in  the  cables?" 

"No,  Baas." 

"That  will  do,  Krool.  Wait.  Go  to  Mr.  Whalen.  Say 
I  want  him  to  bring  a  stenographer  and  all  the  Partners — 
he'll  understand — to  me  at  ten  to-night." 

"Yes,  Baas." 

Krool  bowed  slowly.  As  he  raised  his  head  his  eyes 
caught  those  of  Jasmine.  For  an  instant  they  regarded 
each  other  steadily,  then  the  man's  eyes  dropped,  and  a 
faint  flush  passed  over  his  face.  The  look  had  its  revela- 
tion which  neither  ever  forgot.  A  quiver  of  fear  passed 
through  Jasmine,  and  was  followed  by  a  sense  of  self- 
protection  and  a  hardening  of  her  will,  as  against  some 
possible  danger. 

As  Krool  left  the  room  he  said  to  himself:  "The  Baas 
speaks  her  for  his  vrouw.  But  the  Baas  will  go  back  quick 
to  the  Vaal — p'r'aps." 

Then  an  evil  smile  passed  over  his  face,  as  he  thought  of 
35 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

the  fall  of  the  Rooinek  —  of  Dr.  Jim  in  Oom  Paul's 
clutches.  He  opened  and  shut  his  fingers  again  with  a 
malignant  cruelty. 

Standing  before  the  fire,  Byng  said  to  Jasmine  medita- 
tively, with  that  old  ironic  humour  which  was  always  part 
of  him:  " '  Fee,  fo,  fi,  fum,  I  smell  the  blood  of  an  English- 
man.' " 

Her  face  contracted  with  pain.  "They  will  take  Dr. 
Jim's  life?"  she  asked,  solemnly. 

"  It's  hard  to  tell.  It  isn't  him  alone.  There's  lots  of 
others  that  we  both  know." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course.  It's  terrible,  terrible,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

"  It's  more  terrible  than  it  looks,  even  now.  It's  a  black 
day  for  England.  She  doesn't  know  yet  how  black  it  is. 
I  see  it,  though;  I  see  it.  It's  as  plain  as  an  open  book. 
Well,  there's  work  to  do,  and  I  must  be  about  it.  I'm  off 
to  the  Colonial  Office.  No  time  to  lose.  It's  a  job  that 
has  no  eight-hours  shift." 

Now  the  real  man  was  alive.  He  was  transformed. 
The  face  was  set  and  quiet.  He  looked  concentrated  will 
and  power  as  he  stood  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him, 
his  shoulders  thrown  back,  his  eyes  alight  with  fire  and 
determination.  To  herself  Jasmine  seemed  to  be  moving 
in  the  centre  of  great  events,  having  her  fingers  upon  the 
levers  which  work  behind  the  scenes  of  the  world's  vast 
schemes,  standing  by  the  secret  machinery  of  government. 

"How  I  wish  I  could  help  you,"  she  said,  softly,  coming 
nearer  to  him,  a  warm  light  in  her  liquid  blue  eyes,  her 
exquisite  face  flushing  with  excitement,  her  hands  clasped 
in  front  of  her. 

As  Byng  looked  at  her,  it  seemed  to  him  that  sweet 
honesty  and  high-heartedness  had  never  had  so  fine  a 
setting;  that  never  had  there  been  in  the  world  such  an 
epitome  of  talent,  beauty  and  sincerity.  He  had  sud- 
denly capitulated,  he  who  had  ridden  unscathed  so  long. 
If  he  had  dared  he  would  have  taken  her  in  his  arms  there 
36 


A    DAUGHTER   OF   TYRE 

and  then;  but  he  had  known  her  only  for  a  day.  He  had 
been  always  told  that  a  woman  must  be  wooed  and  won, 
and  to  woo  took  time.  It  was  not  a  task  he  understood, 
but  suddenly  it  came  to  him  that  he  was  prepared  to  do 
it;  that  he  must  be  patient  and  watch  and  serve,  and,  as 
he  used  to  do,  perhaps,  be  elate  in  the  morning  and  de- 
pressed at  night,  till  the  day  of  triumph  came  and  his 
luck  was  made  manifest. 

"But  you  can  help  me,  yes,  you  can  help  me  as  no  one 
else  can,"  he  said  almost  hoarsely,  and  his  hands  moved 
a  little  towards  her. 

"You  must  show  me  how,"  she  said,  scarce  above  a 
whisper,  and  she  drew  back  slightly,  for  this  look  in  his 
eyes  told  its  own  story. 

"When  may  I  come  again?"  he  asked. 

'"I  want  so  much  to  hear  everything  about  South  Africa. 
Won't  you  come  to-morrow  at  six?"  she  asked. 

"Certainly,  to-morrow  at  six,"  he  answered,  eagerly, 
"and  thank  you." 

His  honest  look  of  admiration  enveloped  her  as  her 
hand  was  again  lost  in  his  strong,  generous  palm,  and  lay 
there  for  a  moment  thrilling  him.  .  .  .  He  turned  at  the 
door  and  looked  back,  and  the  smile  she  gave  seemed  the 
most  delightful  thing  he  had  ever  seen. 

"She  is  a  flower,  a  jasmine-flower,"  he  said,  happily,  as 
he  made  his  way  into  the  street. 

When  he  had  gone  she  fled  to  her  bedroom.  Standing 
before  the  mirror,  she  looked  at  herself  long,  laughing  fe- 
verishly. Then  suddenly  she  turned  and  threw  herself 
upon  the  bed,  bursting  into  a  passion  of  tears.  Sobs 
shook  her. 

"Oh,  Ian,"  she  said,  raising  her  head  at  last,  "oh,  Ian, 
Ian,  I  hate  myself!" 

Down  in  the  library  her  stepmother  was  saying  to  her 
father,  "You  are  right,  Jasmine  will  marry  the  nabob." 
"I  am  sorry  for  Ian  Stafford,"  was  the  response. 
37 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

"Men  get  over  such  things,"  came  the  quietly  cynical 
reply. 

"Jasmine  takes  a  lot  of  getting  over,"  answered  Jas- 
mine's father.  "She  has  got  the  brains  of  all  the  family, 
the  beauty  her  family  never  had — the  genius  of  my  father, 
and  the  wilfulness,  and — " 

He  paused,  for,  after  all,  he  was  not  talking  to  the 
mother  of  his  child. 

"Yes,  all  of  it,  dear  child,"  was  the  enigmatical  reply. 

"I  wish — Nelly,  I  do  wish  that — " 

"Yes,  I  know  what  you  wish,  Cuthbert,  but  it's  no 
good.  I'm  not  of  any  use  to  her.  She  will  work  out 
her  own  destiny  alone — as  her  grandfather  did." 

"God  knows  I  hope  not!  A  man  can  carry  it  off,  but 
a  woman — " 

Slow  and  almost  stupid  as  he  was,  he  knew  that  her 
inheritance  from  her  grandfather's  nature  was  a  perilous 
gift. 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE   PARTNERS   MEET 


was  more  stunned  than  shocked.  The 
l^x  dark  significance,  the  evil  consequences  destined  to 
flow  from  the  Jameson  Raid  had  not  yet  reached  the  gen- 
eral mind.  There  was  something  gallant  and  romantic 
in  this  wild  invasion:  a  few  hundred  men,  with  no  com- 
missariat and  insufficient  clothing,  with  enough  ammuni- 
tion and  guns  for  only  the  merest  flurry  of  battle,  doing 
this  unbelievable  gamble  with  Fate  —  challenging  a  repub- 
lic of  fighting  men  with  well-stocked  arsenals  and  capable 
artillery,  with  ample  sources  of  supply,  with  command  of 
railways  and  communications.  It  was  certainly  magnifi- 
cent; but  it  was  magnificent  folly. 

It  did  not  take  England  long  to  decide  that  point;  and 
not  even  the  Laureate's  paean  in  the  organ  of  the 
aristocracy  and  upper  middle-class  could  evoke  any  out- 
burst of  feeling.  There  was  plenty  of  admiration  for  the 
pluck  and  boldness,  for  the  careless  indifference  with 
which  the  raiders  risked  their  lives;  for  the  romantic 
side  of  the  dash  from  Pitsani  to  the  Rand;  but  the  thing 
was  so  palpably  impossible,  as  it  was  carried  out,  that 
there  was  not  a  knowing  mind  in  the  Islands  which  would 
not  have  echoed  Rhodes'  words,  "Jameson  has  upset 
the  apple-cart." 

Rudyard  Byng  did  not  visit  Jasmine  the  next  evening 
at  six  o'clock.  His  world  was  all  in  chaos,  and  he  had 
not  closed  his  eyes  to  sleep  since  he  had  left  her.  At  ten 
o'clock  at  night,  as  he  had  arranged,  "The  Partners"  and 
himself  met  at  his  chambers,  around  which  had  gathered 
4  39 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

a  crowd  of  reporters  and  curious  idlers;  and  from  that 
time  till  the  grey  dawn  he  and  they  had  sat  in  conference. 
He  had  spent  two  hours  at  the  Colonial  Office  after  he 
left  Jasmine,  and  now  all  night  he  kneaded  the  dough  of 
a  new  policy  with  his  companions  in  finance  and  mis- 
fortune. 

There  was  Wallstein,  the  fairest,  ablest,  and  richest 
financier  of  them  all,  with  a  marvellous  head  for  figures; 
and  invaluable  and  commanding  at  the  council-board,  by 
virtue  of  his  clear  brain  and  his  power  to  co-ordinate  all 
the  elements  of  the  most  confusing  financial  problems. 
Others  had  by  luck  and  persistence  made  money — the 
basis  of  their  fortunes;  but  Wallstein  had  showed  them 
how  to  save  those  fortunes  and  make  them  grow;  had 
enabled  them  to  compete  successfully  with  the  games  of 
other  great  financiers  in  the  world's  stock-markets. 
Wallstein  was  short  and  stout,  with  a  big  blue  eye  and  an 
un wrinkled  forehead;  prematurely  aged  from  lack  of 
exercise  and  the  exciting  air  of  the  high  veld;  from 
planning  and  scheming  while  others  slept;  from  an  in- 
herent physical  weakness  due  to  the  fact  that  he  was  one 
of  twin  sons,  to  his  brother  being  given  great  physical 
strength,  to  himself  a  powerful  brain  for  finance  and  a 
frail  if  ample  body.  Wallstein  knew  little  and  cared  less 
about  politics;  yet  he  saw  the  use  of  politics  in  finance, 
and  he  did  not  stick  his  head  into  the  sand  as  some  of  his 
colleagues  did  when  political  activities  hampered  their  oper- 
ations. In  Johannesburg  he  had  kept  aloof  from  the  strug- 
gle with  Oom  Paul,  not  from  lack  of  will,  but  because  he 
had  no  stomach  for  daily  intrigue  and  guerrilla  warfare 
and  subterranean  workings;  and  he  was  convinced  that 
only  a  great  and  bloody  struggle  would  end  the  contest 
for  progress  and  equal  rights  for  all  white  men  on  the 
Rand.  His  inquiries  had  been  bent  towards  so  disposing 
the  financial  operations,  so  bulwarking  the  mining  in- 
dustry by  sagacious  designs,  that,  when  the  worst  came, 
they  all  would  be  able  to  weather  the  storm.  He  had  done 
40 


THE    PARTNERS    MEET 

his  work  better  than  his  colleagues  knew,  or  indeed  even 
himself  knew. 

Probably  only  Fleming  the  Scotsman — another  of  the 
Partners — with  a  somewhat  dour  exterior,  an  indomitable 
will,  and  a  caution  which  compelled  him  to  make  good 
every  step  of  the  way  before  him,  and  so  cultivate  a  long 
sight  financially  and  politically,  understood  how  extraor- 
dinary Wallstein's  work  had  been — only  Fleming,  and 
Rudyard  Byng,  who  knew  better  than  any  and  all. 

There  was  also  De  Lancy  Scovel,  who  had  become  a 
biggish  figure  in  the  Rand  world  because  he  had  been  a 
kind  of  financial  valet  to  Wallstein  and  Byng,  and,  it  was 
said,  had  been  a  real  unofficial  valet  to  Rhodes,  being  an 
authority  on  cooking,  and  on  brewing  a  punch,  and  a  master 
of  commissariat  in  the  long  marches  which  Rhodes  made 
in  the  days  when  he  trekked  into  Rhodesia.  It  was  in- 
deed said  that  he  had  made  his  first  ten  thousand  pounds 
out  of  two  trips  which  Rhodes  made  en  route  to  Lobengula, 
and  had  added  to  this  amount  on  the  principle  of  com- 
pound multiplication  when  the  Matabele  war  came;  for 
here  again  he  had  a  collateral  interest  in  the  commis- 
sariat. 

Rhodes,  with  a  supreme  carelessness  in  regard  to  money, 
with  an  indifference  to  details  which  left  his  mind  free  for 
the  working  of  a  few  main  ideas,  had  no  idea  how  many 
cheques  he  gave  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  to  De  Lancy 
Scovel  in  this  month  or  in  that,  in  this  year  or  in  that,  for 
this  thing  or  for  that — cheques  written  very  often  on  the 
backs  of  envelopes,  on  the  white  margin  of  a  newspaper, 
on  the  fly-leaf  of  a  book  or  a  blank  telegraph  form.  The 
Master  Man  was  so  stirred  by  half -contemptuous  humour 
at  the  sycophancy  and  snobbery  of  his  vain  slave,  who 
could  make  a  salad  out  of  anything  edible,  that,  caring 
little  what  men  were,  so  long  as  they  did  his  work  for  him, 
he  once  wrote  a  cheque  for  two  thousand  pounds  on  the 
starched  cuff  of  his  henchman's  "biled  shirt"  at  a  dinner 
prepared  for  his  birthday. 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

So  it  was  that,  with  the  marrow-bones  thrown  to  him, 
De  Lancy  Scovel  came  to  a  point  where  he  could  follow 
Wallstein's  and  Rhodes'  lead  financially,  being  privy  to 
their  plans,  through  eavesdropping  on  the  conferences  of 
his  chiefs.  It  came  as  a  surprise  to  his  superiors  that  one 
day's  chance  discovery  showed  De  Lancy  Scovel  to  be 
worth  fifty  thousand  pounds;  and  from  that  time  on  they 
used  him  for  many  a  purpose  in  which  it  was  expedient 
their  own  hands  should  not  appear.  They  felt  confident 
that  a  man  who  could  so  carefully  and  secretly  build  up 
his  own  fortune  had  a  gift  which  could  be  used  to  ad- 
vantage. A  man  who  could  be  so  subterranean  in  his 
ownfaffairs  would  no  doubt  be  equally  secluded  in  their 
business.  Selfishness  would  make  him  silent.  And  so 
it  was  that  "the  dude"  of  the  camp  and  the  kraal,  the 
factotum,  who  in  his  time  had  brushed  Rhodes'  clothes 
when  he  brushed  his  own,  after  the  Kaffir  servant  had 
messed  them  about,  came  to  be  a  millionaire  and  one  of 
the  Partners.  For  him  South  Africa  had  no  charms.  He 
was  happy  in  London,  or  at  his  country-seat  in  Leicester- 
shire, where  he  followed  the  hounds  with  a  temerity  which 
was  at  base  vanity;  where  he  gave  the  county  the  best 
food  to  be  got  outside  St.  Petersburg  or  Paris;  where  his 
so-called  bachelor  establishment  was  cared  for  by  a  coarse, 
grey-haired  housekeeper  who,  the  initiated  said,  was  De 
Lancy's  South  African  wife,  with  a  rooted  objection  to 
being  a  lady  or  "moving  in  social  circles";  whose  pleas- 
ure lay  in  managing  this  big  household  under  De  Lancy's 
guidance.  There  were  those  who  said  they  had  seen  her 
brush  a  speck  of  dust  from  De  Lancy's  coat-collar,  as  she 
emerged  from  her  morning  interview  with  him;  and  others 
who  said  they  had  seen  her  hidden  in  the  shrubbery 
listening  to  the  rather  flaccid  conversation  of  her  splendid 
poodle  of  a  master. 

There  were  others  who  had  climbed  to  success  in  their 
own  way,  some  by  happy  accident,  some  by  a  force  which 
disregarded  anything  in  their  way,  and  some  by  sheer 
42 


THE    PARTNERS    MEET 

honest  rough  merit,  through  which  the  soul  of  the  true 
pioneer  shone. 

There  was  also  Barry  Whalen,  who  had  been  educated 
as  a  doctor,  and,  with  a  rare  Irish  sense  of  adaptability 
and  amazing  Celtic  cleverness,  had  also  become  a 
mining  engineer,  in  the  days  when  the  Transvaal  was 
emerging  from  its  pioneer  obscurity  into  the  golden  light 
of  mining  prosperity.  Abrupt,  obstinately  honest,  and 
sincere;  always  protesting  against  this  and  against  that, 
always  the  critic  of  authority,  whether  the  authority  was 
friend  or  foe;  always  smothering  his  own  views  in  the 
moment  when  the  test  of  loyalty  came;  always  with  a 
voice  like  a  young  bull  and  a  heart  which  would  have 
suited  a  Goliath,  there  was  no  one  but  trusted  Barry,  none 
that  had  not  hurried  to  him  in  a  difficulty;  not  because  he 
was  so  wise,  but  because  he  was  so  true.  He  would  never 
have  made  money,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  his  prescience, 
his  mining  sense,  his  diagnosis  of  the  case  of  a  mine,  as 
Byng  called  it,  had  been  a  great  source  of  wealth  to  others, 
had  it  not  been  for  Wallstein  and  Byng. 

Wallstein  had  in  him  a  curious  gentleness  and  human 
sympathy,  little  in  keeping  with  the  view  held  of  him  by 
that  section  of  the  British  press  which  would  willingly 
have  seen  England  at  the  mercy  of  Paul  Kruger — for  Eng- 
land's good,  for  her  soul's  welfare  as  it  were,  for  her  needed 
chastisement.  He  was  spoken  of  as  a  cruel,  tyrannical, 
greedy  German  Jew,  whose  soul  was  in  his  own  pocket 
and  his  hand  in  the  pockets  of  the  world.  In  truth  he  was 
none  of  these  things,  save  that  he  was  of  German  birth, 
and  of  as  good  and  honest  German  origin  as  George  of 
Hanover  and  his  descendants,  if  not  so  distinguished. 
Wallstein's  eye  was  an  eye  of  kindness,  save  in  the  vision 
of  business;  then  it  saw  without  emotion  to  the  advan- 
tage of  the  country  where  he  had  made  his  money,  and  to 
the  perpetual  advantage  of  England,  to  whom  he  gave  an 
honourable  and  philanthropic  citizenship.  His  charities 
were  not  of  the  spectacular  kind;  but  many  a  poor  and 
43 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

worthy,  and  often  unworthy,  unfortunate  was  sheltered 
through  bad  days  and  heavy  weather  of  life  by  the  im- 
mediate personal  care  of  "the  Jew  Mining  Magnate,  who 
didn't  care  a  damn  what  happened  to  England  so  long  as 
his  own  nest  was  well  lined!" 

It  was  Wallstein  who  took  heed  of  the  fact  that,  as  he 
became  rich,  Barry  Whalen  remained  poor;  and  it  was  he 
who  took  note  that  Barry  had  a  daughter  who  might  any 
day  be  left  penniless  with  frail  health  and  no  protector; 
and  taking  heed  and  note,  it  was  he  made  all  the  Partners 
unite  in  taking  some  financial  risks  and  responsibilities  for 
Barry,  when  two  new  mines  were  opened — to  Barry's 
large  profit.  It  was  characteristic  of  Barry,  however,  that, 
if  they  had  not  disguised  their  action  by  financial  devices, 
and  by  making  him  a  Partner,  because  he  was  needed 
professionally  and  intellectually  and  for  other  business 
reasons,  nicely  phrased  to  please  his  Celtic  vanity,  he 
would  have  rejected  the  means  to  the  fortune  which  came 
to  him.  It  was  a  far  smaller  fortune  than  any  of  the  others 
had;  but  it  was  sufficient  for  him  and  for  his  child.  So 
it  was  that  Barry  became  one  of  the  Partners,  and  said 
things  that  every  one  else  would  hesitate  to  say,  but  were 
glad  to  hear  said. 

Others  of  the  group  were  of  varying  degrees  of  ability 
and  interest  and  importance.  One  or  two  were  poltroons 
in  body  and  mind,  with  only  a  real  instinct  for  money- 
making  and  a  capacity  for  constructive  individualism. 
Of  them  the  most  conspicuous  was  Clifford  Melville,  whose 
name  was  originally  Joseph  Sobieski,  with  habitat  Poland, 
whose  small  part  in  this  veracious  tale  belongs  elsewhere. 

Each  had  his  place,  and  all  were  influenced  by  the  great 
schemes  of  Rhodes  and  their  reflection  in  the  purposes  and 
actions  of  Wallstein.  Wallstein  was  inspired  by  the 
dreams  and  daring  purposes  of  Empire  which  had  driven 
Rhodes  from  Table  Mountain  to  the  kraal  of  Lobengula 
and  far  beyond;  until,  at  last,  the  flag  he  had  learned  to 
love  had  been  triumphantly  trailed  from  the  Cape  to  Cairo. 
44 


THE    PARTNERS    MEET 

Now  in  the  great  crisis,  Wallstein,  of  them  all,  was  the 
most  self-possessed,  save  Rudyard  Byng.  Some  of  the 
others  were  paralyzed.  They  could  only  whine  out  ex- 
ecrations on  the  man  who  had  dared  something;  who,  if 
he  had  succeeded,  would  have  been  hailed  as  the  great 
leader  of  a  Revolution,  not  the  scorned  and  humiliated 
captain  of  a  filibustering  expedition.  A  triumphant  re- 
bellion or  raid  is  always  a  revolution  in  the  archives  of  a 
nation.  These  men  were  of  a  class  who  run  for  cover 
before  a  battle  begins,  and  can  never  be  kept  in  the  fight- 
ing-line except  with  the  bayonet  in  the  small  of  their 
backs.  Others  were  irritable  and  strenuous,  bitter  in 
their  denunciations  of  the  Johannesburg  conspirators,  who 
had  bungled  their  side  of  the  business  and  who  had 
certainly  shown  no  rashness.  At  any  rate,  whatever  the 
merits  of  their  case,  no  one  in  England  accused  the 
Johannesburgers  of  foolhardy  courage  or  impassioned 
daring.  They  were  so  busy  in  trying  to  induce  Jameson 
to  go  back  that  they  had  no  time  to  go  forward  them- 
selves. It  was  not  that  they  lost  their  heads,  their 
hearts  were  the  disappearing  factors. 

At  this  gloomy  meeting  in  his  house,  Byng  did  not  join 
either  of  the  two  sections  who  represented  the  more  ex- 
treme views  and  the  unpolitical  minds.  There  was  a 
small  section,  of  which  he  was  one,  who  were  not  cleverer 
financially  than  their  friends,  but  who  had  political  sense 
and  intuition;  and  these,  to  their  credit,  were  more  con- 
cerned, at  this  dark  moment,  for  the  political  and  national 
consequences  of  the  Raid,  than  for  the  certain  set-back  to 
the  mining  and  financial  enterprises  of  the  Rand.  A  few 
of  the  richest  of  them  were  the  most  hopeless  politically — 
ever  ready  to  sacrifice  principle  for  an  extra  dividend  of  a 
quarter  per  cent.;  and,  in  their  inmost  souls,  ready  to 
bow  the  knee  to  Oom  Paul  and  his  unwholesome,  un- 
democratic, and  corrupt  government,  if  only  the  dividends 
moved  on  and  up. 

Byng  was  not  a  great  genius,  and  he  had  never  given 
45 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

his  natural  political  talent  its  full  chance;  but  his  soul 
was  bigger  than  his  pocket.  He  had  a  passionate  love  for 
the  land — for  England — which  had  given  him  birth;  and 
he  had  a  decent  pride  in  her  honour  and  good  name.  So 
it  was  that  he  had  almost  savagely  challenged  some  of  the 
sordid  deliberations  of  this  stern  conference.  In  a  full- 
blooded  and  manly  appeal  he  begged  them  "to  get  on 
higher  ground."  If  he  could  but  have  heard  it,  it  would 
have  cheered  the  heart  of  the  broken  and  discredited 
pioneer  of  Empire  at  Capetown,  who  had  received  his 
death-warrant,  to  take  effect  within  five  years,  in  the 
little  cottage  at  Muizenberg  by  the  sea;  as  great  a  soul 
in  posse  as  ever  came  from  the  womb  of  the  English 
mother;  who  said  as  he  sat  and  watched  the  tide  flow  in 
and  out,  and  his  own  tide  of  life  ebbed,  "Life  is  a  three 
days'  trip  to  the  sea-shore:  one  day  in  going,  one  day  in 
settling  down,  and  one  day  in  packing  up  again." 

Byng  had  one  or  two  colleagues  who,  under  his  in- 
spiration, also  took  the  larger  view,  and  who  looked  ahead 
to  the  consequences  yet  to  flow  from  the  fiasco  at  Doorn- 
kop,  which  became  a  tragedy.  What  would  happen  to 
the  conspirators  of  Johannesburg?  What  would  happen 
to  Jameson  and  Willoughby  and  Bobby  White  and  Raleigh 
Grey?  Who  was  to  go  to  South  Africa  to  help  in  holding 
things  together,  and  to  prevent  the  worst  happening,  if 
possible  ?  At  this  point  they  had  arrived  when  they  saw — 

.  .  .  The  dull  dank  morn  stare  in, 

Like  a  dim  drowned  face  with  oozy  eyes. 

A  more  miserable  morning  seldom  had  broken,  even  in 
England. 

"  I  will  go.  I  must  go,"  remarked  Byng  at  last,  though 
there  was  a  strange  sinking  of  the  heart  as  he  said  it. 
Even  yet  the  perfume  of  Jasmine's  cloak  stole  to  his 
senses  to  intoxicate  them.  But  it  was  his  duty  to  offer 
to  go ;  and  he  felt  that  he  could  do  good  by  going,  and  that 
he  was  needed  at  Johannesburg.  He,  more  than  all  of 
46 


THE    PARTNERS    MEET 

them,  had  been  in  open  conflict  with  Oom  Paul  in  the 
past,  had  fought  him  the  most  vigorously,  and  yet  for 
him  the  old  veldschoen  Boer  had  some  regard  and  much 
respect,  in  so  far  as  he  could  respect  a  Rooinek  at  all. 

"I  will  go,"  Byng  repeated,  and  looked  round  the  table 
at  haggard  faces,  at  ashen  faces,  at  the  faces  of  men  who 
had  smoked  to  quiet  their  nerves,  or  drunk  hard  all  night 
to  keep  up  their  courage.  How  many  times  they  had  done 
the  same  in  olden  days,  when  the  millions  were  not  yet 
arrived,  and  their  only  luxury  was  companionship  and 
champagne — or  something  less  expensive. 

As  Byng  spoke,  Krool  entered  the  room  with  a  great 
coffee-pot  and  a  dozen  small  white  bowls.  He  heard 
Byng's  words,  and  for  a  moment  his  dark  eyes  glowed 
with  a  look  of  evil  satisfaction.  But  his  immobile  face 
showed  nothing,  and  he  moved  like  a  spirit  among  them, 
his  lean  hand  putting  a  bowl  before  each  person,  like  a 
servitor  of  Death  passing  the  hemlock-brew. 

At  his  entrance  there  was  instant  silence,  for,  secret 
as  their  conference  must  be,  this  half-caste,  this  Hot- 
tentot-Boer, must  hear  nothing  and  know  nothing.  Not 
one  of  them  but  resented  his  being  Byng's  servant. 
Not  one  but  felt  him  a  danger  at  any  time,  and 
particularly  now.  Once  Barry  Whalen,  the  most  out- 
wardly brusque  and  apparently  frank  of  them  all,  had 
urged  Byng  to  give  Krool  up,  but  without  avail;  and  now 
Barry  eyed  the  half-caste  with  a  resentful  determination. 
He  knew  that  Krool  had  heard  Byng's  words,  for  he 
was  sitting  opposite  the  double  doors,  and  had  seen  the 
malicious  eyes  light  up.  Instantly,  however,  that  light 
vanished.  They  all  might  have  been  wooden  men,  and 
Krool  but  a  wooden  servitor,  so  mechanical  and  con- 
centrated were  his  actions.  He  seemed  to  look  at  no- 
body; but  some  of  them  shrank  a  little  as  he  leaned  over 
and  poured  the  brown,  steaming  liquid  and  the  hot  milk 
into  the  bowls.  Only  once  did  the  factotum  look  at  any- 
body directly,  and  that  was  at  Byng  just  as  he  was  about 
47. 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

to  leave  the  room.  Then  Barry  Whalen  saw  him  glance 
searchingly  at  his  master's  face  in  a  mirror,  and  again  that 
baleful  light  leaped  up  in  his  eyes. 

When  he  had  left  the  room,  Barry  Whalen  said,  im- 
pulsively: "  Byng,  it's  all  damn  foolery  your  keeping  that 
fellow  about  you.  It's  dangerous,  'specially  now." 

"Coffee's  good,  isn't  it?  Think  there's  poison  in  it?" 
Byng  asked  with  a  contemptuous  little  laugh.  "Sugar — 
what?"  He  pushed  the  great  bowl  of  sugar  over  the 
polished  table  towards  Barry. 

"Oh,  he  makes  you  comfortable  enough,  but — " 

"But  he  makes  you  uncomfortable,  Barry?  Well, 
we're  bound  to  get  on  one  another's  nerves  one  way  or 
another  in  this  world  when  the  east  wind  blows;  and  if 
it  isn't  the  east  wind,  it's  some  other  wind.  We're  living 
on  a  planet  which  has  to  take  the  swipes  of  the  universe, 
because  it  has  permitted  that  corrupt,  quarrelsome,  and 
pernicious  beast,  man,  to  populate  the  hemispheres. 
Krool  is  staying  on  with  me,  Barry." 

"We're  in  heavy  seas,  and  we  don't  want  any  wreckers  on 
the  shore,"  was  the  moody  and  nervously  indignant  reply. 

"Well,  Krool's  in  the  heavy  seas,  all  right,  too — with 
me." 

Barry  Whalen  persisted.  "We're  in  for  complications, 
Byng.  England  has  to  take  a  hand  in  the  game  now  with 
a  vengeance.  We  don't  want  any  spies.  He's  more 
Boer  than  native." 

"There'll  be  nothing  Krool  can  get  worth  spying  for. 
If  we  keep  our  mouths  shut  to  the  outside  world,  we'll 
not  need  fear  any  spies.  I'm  not  afraid  of  Krool.  We'll 
not  be  sold  by  him.  Though  some  one  inside  will  sell 
us  perhaps — as  the  Johannesburg  game  was  sold  by  some 
one  inside." 

There  was  a  painful  silence,  and  more  than  one  man 
looked  at  his  fellows  furtively. 

"We  will  do  nothing  that  will  not  bear  the  light  of  day, 
and  then  we  need  not  fear  any  spying,"  continued  Byng. 
48 


THE    PARTNERS    MEET 

"  If  we  have  secret  meetings  and  intentions  which  we  don't 
make  public,  it  is  only  what  governments  themselves  have; 
and  we  keep  them  quiet  to  prevent  any  one  taking  ad- 
vantage of  us;  but  our  actions  are  justifiable.  I'm  going 
to  do  nothing  I'm  ashamed  of;  and  when  it's  necessary, 
or  when  and  if  it  seems  right  to  do  so,  I'll  put  all  my  cards 
on  the  table.  But  when  I  do,  I'll  see  that  it's  a  full  hand 
— if  I  can." 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  moment  after  he  had  ended, 
then  some  one  said: 

"You  think  it's  best  that  you  should  go?  You  want 
to  go  to  Johannesburg?" 

"I  didn't  say  anything  about  wanting  to  go.  I  said  I'd 
go  because  one  of  us — or  two  of  us — ought  to  go.  There's 
plenty  to  do  here;  but  if  I  can  be  any  more  use  out  there, 
why,  Walletein  can  stay  here,  and — " 

He  got  no  further,  for  Wallstein,  to  whom  he  had  just 
referred,  and  who  had  been  sitting  strangely  impassive, 
with  his  eyes  approvingly  fixed  on  Byng,  half  rose  from 
his  chair  and  fell  forward,  his  thick,  white  hands  sprawling 
on  the  mahogany  table,  his  fat,  pale  face  striking  the 
polished  wood  with  a  thud.  In  an  instant  they  were  all 
on  their  feet  and  at  his  side. 

Barry  Whalen  lifted  up  his  head  and  drew  him  back 
into  the  chair,  then  three  of  them  lifted  him  upon  a  sofa. 
Barry's  hand  felt  the  breast  of  the  prostrate  figure,  and 
Byng's  fingers  sought  his  wrist.  For  a  moment  there  was 
a  dreadful  silence,  and  then  Byng  and  Whalen  looked  at 
each  other  and  nodded. 

"Brandy!"  said  Byng,  peremptorily. 

"He's  not  dead?"  whispered  some  one. 

"Brandy — quick,"  urged  Byng,  and,  lifting  up  the 
head  a  little,  he  presently  caught  the  glass  from  Whalen's 
hand  and  poured  some  brandy  slowly  between  the  bluish 
lips.  "Some  one  ring  for  Krool,"  he  added. 

A  moment  later  Krool  entered.  ' '  The  doctor — my  doc- 
tor and  his  own — and  a  couple  of  nurses,"  Byng  said, 
49 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

sharply,  and  Krool  nodded  and  vanished.  "Perhaps  it's 
only  a  slight  heart-attack,  but  it's  best  to  be  on  the  safe 
side." 

"Anyhow,  it  shows  that  Wallstein  needs  to  let  up  for 
a  while,"  whispered  Fleming. 

"It  means  that  some  one  must  do  Wallstein's  work 
here,"  said  Barry  Whalen.  "It  means  that  Byng  stays 
in  London,"  he  added,  as  Krool  entered  the  room  again 
with  a  rug  to  cover  Wallstein. 

Barry  saw  Krool's  eyes  droop  before  his  words,  and  he 
was  sure  that  the  servant  had  reasons  for  wishing  his  master 
to  go  to  South  Africa.  The  others  present,  however,  only 
saw  a  silent,  magically  adept  figure  stooping  over  the  sick 
man,  adjusting  the  body  to  greater  ease,  arranging  skil- 
fully the  cushion  under  the  head,  loosening  and  removing 
the  collar  and  the  boots,  and  taking  possession  of  the 
room,  as  though  he  himself  were  the  doctor;  while  Byng 
looked  on  with  satisfaction. 

"Useful  person,  eh?"  he  said,  meaningly,  in  an  under- 
tone to  Barry  Whalen. 

"I  don't  think  he's  at  home  in  England,"  rejoined 
Barry,  as  meaningly  and  very  stubbornly.  "He  won't 
like  your  not  going  to  South  Africa." 

"Am  I  not  going  to  South  Africa?"  Byng  asked,  me- 
chanically, and  looking  reflectively  at  Krool. 

"Wallstein's  a  sick  man,  Byng.  You  can't  leave  Lon- 
don. You're  the  only  real  politician  among  us.  Some 
one  else  must  go  to  Johannesburg." 

"You — Barry?" 

"You  know  I  can't,  Byng — there's  my  girl.  Besides, 
I  don't  carry  enough  weight,  anyhow,  and  you  know 
that  too." 

Byng  remembered  Whalen's  girl — stricken  down  with 
consumption  a  few  months  before.  He  caught  Whalen's 
arm  in  a  grip  of  friendship.  "All  right,  dear  old  man," 
he  said,  kindly.  "Fleming  shall  go,  and  I'll  stay. 
I'll  stay  here,  and  do  Wallstein's  work," 
50 


THE    PARTNERS    MEET 

He  was  still  mechanically  watching  Krool  attend  to  the 
sick  man,  and  he  was  suddenly  conscious  of  an  arrest  of 
all  motion  in  the  half-caste's  lithe  frame.  Then  Krool 
turned,  and  their  eyes  met.  Had  he  drawn  Krool's  eyes 
to  his — the  master-mind  influencing  the  subservient  in- 
telligence? 

"Krool  wants  to  go  to  South  Africa,"  he  said  to  himself 
with  a  strange,  new  sensation  which  he  did  not  under- 
stand, though  it  was  not  quite  a  doubt.  He  reassured 
himself.  "Well,  it's  natural  he  should.  It's  his  home.  .  . . 
But  Fleming  must  go  to  Johannesburg.  I'm  needed  most 
here." 

There  was  gratitude  in  his  heart  that  Fate  had  decreed 
it  so.  He  was  conscious  of  the  perfume  from  Jasmine's 
cloak  searching  his  senses,  even  in  this  hour  when  these 
things  that  mattered — the  things  of  Fate — were  so  enor- 
mously awry. 


CHAPTER  V 

A   WOMAN   TELLS   HER   STORY 

SOON  he  will  speak  you.  Wait  here,  madame." 
Krool  passed  almost  stealthily  out. 

Al'mah  looked  round  the  rather  formal  sitting-room, 
with  its  somewhat  incongruous  furnishing — leopard-skins 
from  Bechuanaland;  lion-skins  from  Matabeleland;  silver- 
mounted  tusks  of  elephants  from  Eastern  Cape  Colony 
and  Portuguese  East  Africa;  statues  and  statuettes  of 
classical  subjects;  two  or  three  Holbeins,  a  Rembrandt, 
and  an  El  Greco  on  the  walls;  a  piano,  a  banjo,  and  a 
cornet;  and,  in  the  corner,  a  little  roulette-table.  It  was 
a  strange  medley,  in  keeping,  perhaps,  with  the  incongru- 
ously furnished  mind  of  the  master  of  it  all;  it  was  expres- 
sive of  tastes  and  habits  not  yet  settled  and  consistent. 

ATmah's  eyes  had  taken  it  all  in  rather  wistfully,  while 
she  had  waited  for  Krool's  return  from  his  master;  but 
the  wistfulness  was  due  to  personal  trouble,  for  her  eyes 
were  clouded  and  her  motions  languid.  But  when  she 
saw  the  banjo,  the  cornet,  and  the  roulette-table,  a  deep 
little  laugh  rose  to  her  full  red  lips. 

"How  like  a  subaltern,  or  a  colonial  civil  servant!"  she 
said  to  herself. 

She  reflected  a  moment,  then  pursued  the  thought 
further:  "But  there  must  be  bigness  in  him,  as  well  as 
presence  of  mind  and  depth  of  heart — yes,  I'm  sure  his 
nature  is  deep." 

She  remembered  the  quick,  protecting  hands  which  had 
wrapped  her  round  with  Jasmine  Grenfel's  cloak,  and  the 
great  arms  in  which  she  had  rested,  the  danger  over. 
52 


A    WOMAN    TELLS    HER    STORY 

"There  can't  be  much  wrong  with  a  nature  like  his, 
though  Adrian  hates  him  so.  But,  of  course,  Adrian 
would.  Besides,  Adrian  will  never  get  over  the  drop  in 
the  mining-stock  which  ruined  him — Rudyard  Byng's 
mine.  .  .  .  It's  natural  for  Adrian  to  hate  him,  I  suppose," 
she  added  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

Mentally  she  took  to  comparing  this  room  with  Adrian 
Fellowes'  sitting-room  overlooking  the  Thames  Embank- 
ment, where  everything  was  in  perfect  taste  and  order, 
where  all  was  modulated,  harmonious,  soigne  and  artistic. 
Yet,  somehow,  the  handsome  chambers  which  hung  over 
the  muddy  river  with  its  wonderful  lights  and  shades,  its 
mists  and  radiance,  its  ghostly  softness  and  greyness, 
lacked  in  something  that  roused  imagination,  that  stirred 
her  senses  here — the  vital  being  in  her. 

It  was  power,  force,  experience,  adventure.  They  were 
all  here.  She  knew  the  signs:  the  varied  interests,  the 
primary  emotions,  music,  art,  hunting,  prospecting,  fight- 
ing, gambling.  They  were  mixed  with  the  solid  achieve- 
ment of  talent  and  force  in  the  business  of  life.  Here  was 
a  model  of  a  new  mining-drill,  with  a  picture  of  the  stamps 
working  in  the  Work-and- Wonder  mine,  together  with  a 
model  of  the  Kaffir  compound  at  Kimberley,  with  the 
busy,  teeming  life  behind  the  wire  boundaries. 

Thus  near  was  Byng  to  the  ways  of  a  child,  she  thought, 
thus  near  to  the  everlasting  intelligence  and  the  busy  soul 
of  a  constructive  and  creative  Deity' — if  there  was  a  Deity. 
Despite  the  frequent  laughter  on  her  tongue  and  in  her 
eyes,  she  doubted  bitterly  at  times  that  there  was  a  Deity. 
For  how  should  happen  the  awful  tragedies  which  encom- 
passed men  and  peoples,  if  there  was  a  Deity.  No  be- 
nign Deity  could  allow  His  own  created  humanity  to  be 
crushed  in  bleeding  masses,  like  the  grapes  trampled  in 
the  vats  of  a  vineyard.  Whole  cities  swallowed  up  by 
earthquake;  islands  swept  of  their  people  by  a  tidal 
wave;  a  vast  ship  pierced  by  an  iceberg  and  going  down 
with  its  thousand  souls;  provinces  spread  with  the  vile 
53 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

elements  of  a  plague  which  carpeted  the  land  with  dead; 
mines  flooded  by  water  or  devastated  by  fire;  the  little 
new-born  babe  left  without  the  rightful  breast  to  feed  it; 
the  mother  and  her  large  family  suddenly  deprived  of  the 
breadwinner;  old  men  who  had  lived  like  saints,  giving 
their  all  to  their  own  and  to  the  world,  driven  to  the 
degradation  of  the  poorhouse  in  the  end — ah,  if  one  did 
not  smile,  one  would  die  of  weeping,  she  thought. 

Al'mah  had  smiled  her  way  through  the  world;  with  a 
quick  word  of  sympathy  for  any  who  were  hurt  by  the 
blows  of  life  or  time;  with  an  open  hand  for  the  poor  and 
miserable, — now  that  she  could  afford  it — and  hiding  her 
own  troubles  behind  mirth  and  bonhommje;  for  her  hu- 
mour, as  her  voice,  was  deep  and  strong  like  that  of  a  man. 
It  was  sometimes  too  pronounced,  however,  Adrian  Fel- 
lowes  had  said;  and  Adrian  was  an  acute  observer,  who 
took  great  pride  in  her.  Was  it  not  to  Adrian  she  had 
looked  first  for  approval  the  night  of  her  triumph  at  Co- 
vent  Garden — why,  that  was  only  a  few  days  ago,  and 
it  seemed  a  hundred  days,  so  much  had  happened  since. 
It  was  Adrian's  handsome  face  which  had  told  her  then 
of  the  completeness  of  her  triumph. 

The  half-caste  valet  entered  again.  "Here  come, 
madame,"  he  said  with  something  very  near  a  smile;  for 
he  liked  this  woman,  and  his  dark,  sensual  soul  would 
have  approved  of  his  master  liking  her. 

"Soon  the  Baas,  madame,"  he  said  as  he  placed  a  chair 
for  her,  and  with  the  gliding  footstep  of  a  native  left  the 
room. 

"Sunny  creature!"  she  remarked  aloud,  with  a  little 
laugh,  and  looked  round.  Instantly  her  face  lighted  with 
interest.  Here  was  nothing  of  that  admired  disorder,  that 
medley  of  incongruous  things  which  marked  the  room  she 
had  just  left;  but  perfect  order,  precision,  and  balance  of 
arrangement,  the  most  peaceful  equipoise.  There  was  a 
great  carved  oak-table  near  to  sun-lit  windows,  and  on  it 
were  little  regiments  of  things,  carefully  arranged — bas- 
54 


A   WOMAN   TELLS    HER    STORY 

kets  with  papers  in  elastic  bands;  classified  and  inscribed 
reference-books,  scales,  clips,  pencils;  and  in  one  clear 
space,  with  a  bunch  of  violets  before  it,  the  photograph 
of  a  woman  in  a  splendid  silver  frame — a  woman  of 
seventy  or  so,  obviously  Rudyard  Byng's  mother. 

Al'mah's  eyes  softened.  Here  was  insight  into  a  nature 
of  which  the  world  knew  so  little.  She  looked  further. 
Everywhere  were  signs  of  disciplined  hours  and  careful 
hands  —  cabinets  with  initialed  drawers,  shelves  filled 
with  books.  There  is  no  more  impressive  and  revealing 
moment  with  man  or  woman  than  when  you  stand  in  a 
room  empty  of  their  actual  presence,  but  having,  in  every 
inch  of  it,  the  pervasive  influences  of  the  absent  personal- 
ity. A  strange,  almost  solemn  quietness  stole  over  Al'mah's 
senses.  She  had  been  admitted  to  the  inner  court,  not  of 
the  man's  house,  but  of  his  life.  Her  eyes  travelled  on  with 
the  gratified  reflection  that  she  had  been  admitted  here. 
Above  the  books  were  rows  of  sketches — rows  of  sketches ! 

Suddenly,  as  her  eyes  rested  on  them,  she  turned  pale 
and  got  to  her  feet.  They  were  all  sketches  of  the  veld, 
high  and  low;  of  natives;  of  bits  of  Dutch  architecture; 
of  the  stoep  with  its  Boer  farmer  and  his  vrouw;  of  a  kopje 
with  a  dozen  horses  or  a  herd  of  cattle  grazing;  of  a  spruit, 
or  a  Kaffir's  kraal;  of  oxen  leaning  against  the  dissel- 
boom  of  a  cape- wagon ;  of  a  herd  of  steinboks,  or  a  little 
colony  of  meerkats  in  the  karoo. 

Her  hand  went  to  her  heart  with  a  gesture  of  pain,  and 
a  little  cry  of  misery  escaped  her  lips. 

Now  there  was  a  quick  footstep,  and  Byng  entered 
with  a  cordial  smile  and  an  outstretched  hand. 

"Well,  this  is  a  friendly  way  to  begin  the  New  Year," 
he  said,  cheerily,  taking  her  hand.  "You  certainly  are 
none  the  worse  for  our  little  unrehearsed  drama  the  other 
night.  I  see  by  the  papers  that  you  have  been  repeating 
your  triumph.  Please  sit  down.  Do  you  mind  my  hav- 
ing a  little  toast  while  we  talk?  I  always  have  my  petit 
dejeuner  here;  and  I'm  late  this  morning." 
5  5$ 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"You  look  very  tired,"  she  said  as  she  sat  down. 

Krool  here  entered  with  a  tray,  placing  it  on  a  small 
table  by  the  big  desk.  He  was  about  to  pour  out  the  tea, 
but  Byng  waved  him  away. 

"Send  this  note  at  once  by  hand,"  he  said,  handing 
him  an  envelope.  It  was  addressed  to  Jasmine  Grenfel. 

"Yes,  I'm  tired — rather,"  he  added  to  his  guest  with 
a  sudden  weariness  of  manner.  "I've  had  no  sleep  for 
three  nights — working  all  the  time,  every  hour;  and  in 
this  air  of  London,  which  doesn't  feed  you,  one  needs 
plenty  of  sleep.  You  can't  play  with  yourself  here  as 
you  can  on  the  high  veld,  where  an  hour  or  two  of  sleep 
a  day  will  do.  On-saddle  and  off-saddle,  in-span  and  out- 
span,  plenty  to  eat  and  a  little  sleep;  and  the  air  does  the 
rest.  It  has  been  a  worrying  time." 

"The  Jameson  Raid — and  all  the  rest?" 

"Particularly  all  the  rest.  I  feel  easier  in  my  mind 
about  Dr.  Jim  and  the  others.  England  will  demand — 
so  I  understand,"  he  added  with  a  careful  look  at  her,  as 
though  he  had  said  too  much — "the  right  to  try  Jameson 
and  his  filibusters  from  Matabeleland  here  in  England; 
but  it's  different  with  the  Jo'burgers.  They  will  be 
arrested — " 

"They  have  been  arrested,"  she  intervened. 

"Oh,  is  it  announced?"  he  asked  without  surprise. 

"It  was  placarded  an  hour  ago,"  she  replied,  heavily. 

"Well,  I  fancied  it  would  be,"  he  remarked.  "They'll 
have  a  close  squeak.  The  sympathy  of  the  world  is  with 
Kruger — so  far." 

"That  is  what  I  have  come  about,"  she  said,  with  an 
involuntary  and  shrinking  glance  at  the  sketches  on  the 
walls. 

"What  you  have  come  about?"  he  said,  putting  down 
his  cup  of  tea  and  looking  at  her  intently.  "How  are  you 
concerned?  Where  do  you  come  in?" 

"There  is  a  man — he  has  been  arrested  with  the  others; 
with  Farrar,  Phillips,  Hammond,  and  the  rest — " 
56 


A    WOMAN    TELLS    HER    STORY 


"Oh,  that's  bad!    A  relative, 

"Not  a  relative,  exactly,"  she  replied  in  a  tone  of  irony. 
Rising,  she  went  over  to  the  wall  and  touched  one  of  the 
water-colour  sketches. 

"  How  did  you  come  by  these?"  she  asked. 

"Blantyre's 'sketches?  Well,  it's  all  I  ever  got  for  all 
Blantyre  owed  me,  and  they're  not  bad.  They're  lifted 
out  of  the  life.  That's  why  I  bought  them.  Also  be- 
cause I  liked  to  think  I  got  something  out  of  Blantyre; 
and  that  he  would  wish  I  hadn't.  He  could  paint  a  bit — 
don't  you  think  so?" 

"He  could  paint  a  bit — always,"  she  replied. 

A  silence  followed.  Her  back  was  turned  to  him,  her 
face  was  towards  the  pictures. 

Presently  he  spoke,  with  a  little  deferential  anxiety  in 
the  tone.  "Are  you  interested  in  Blantyre?"  he  asked, 
cautiously.  Getting  up,  he  came  over  to  her. 

"He  has  been  arrested — as  I  said — with  the  others." 

"No,  you  did  not  say  so.  So  they  let  Blantyre  into 
the  game,  did  they?"  he  asked  almost  musingly;  then,  as 
if  recalling  what  she  had  said,  he  added:  "Do  you  mind 
telling  me  exactly  what  is  your  interest  in  Blantyre?" 

She  looked  at  him  straight  'in  the  eyes.  For  a  face 
naturally  so  full  of  humour,  hers  was  strangely  dark  with 
stormy  feeling  now. 

"Yes,  I  will  tell  you  as  much  as  I  can — enough  for  you 
to  understand,"  she  answered. 

He  drew  up  a  chair  to  the  fire,  and  she  sat  down.  He 
nodded  at  her  encouragingly.  Presently  she  spoke. 

"Well,  at  twenty-one  I  was  studying  hard,  and  he  was 
painting — " 

"Blantyre?" 

She  inclined  her  head.  "He  was  full  of  dreams — beau- 
tiful, I  thought  them;  and  he  was  ambitious.  Also  he 
could  talk  quite  marvellously." 

"Yes,  Blantyre  could  talk — once,"  Byng  intervened, 

5? 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

"We  were  married  secretly." 

Byng  made  a  gesture  of  amazement,  and  his  face  be- 
came shocked  and  grave.  "Married!  Married!  You 
were  married  to  Blantyre?" 

"At  a  registry  office  in  Chelsea.  One  month,  only 
one  month  it  was,  and  then  he  went  away  to  Madeira  to 
paint — 'a  big  commission,'  he  said;  and  he  would  send 
for  me  as  soon  as  he  could  get  money  in  hand — certainly 
in  a  couple  of  months.  He  had  taken  most  of  my  half- 
year's  income — I  had  been  left  four  hundred  a  year  by 
my  mother." 

Byng  muttered  a  malediction  under  his  breath  and 
leaned  towards  her  sympathetically. 

With  an  effort  she  continued.  "From  Madeira  he 
wrote  to  tell  me  he  was  going  on  to  South  Africa,  and 
would  not  be  home  for  a  year.  From  South  Africa  he 
wrote  saying  he  was  not  coming  back;  that  I  could  divorce 
him  if  I  liked.  The  proof,  he  said,  would  be  easy;  or  I 
needn't  divorce  him  unless  I  liked,  since  no  one  knew  we 
were  married." 

For  an  instant  there  was  absolute  silence,  and  she  sat 
with  her  fingers  pressed  tight  to  her  eyes.  At  last  she 
went  on,  her  face  turned  away  from  the  great  kindly  blue 
eyes  bent  upon  her,  from  the  face  flushed  with  honourable 
human  sympathy. 

"I  went  into  the  country,  where  I  stayed  for  nearly 
three  years,  till — till  I  could  bear  it  no  longer;  and  then 
I  began  to  study  and  sing  again." 

"What  were  you  doing  in  the  country?"  he  asked  in  a 
low  voice. 

"There  was  my  baby,"  she  replied,  her  hands  clasping 
and  unclasping  in  pain.  "There  was  my  little  Nydia." 

"A  child — she  is  living?"  he  asked  gently. 

"No,  she  died  two  years  ago,"  was  the  answer  in  a 
voice  which  tried  to  be  firm. 

"Does  Blantyre  know?" 

"He  knew  she  was  born,  nothing  more." 
58 


A    WOMAN    TELLS    HER    STORY 

"And  after  all  he  has  done,  and  left  undone,  you  want 
to  try  and  save  him  now?" 

He  was  thinking  that  she  still  loved  the  man.  "That 
off  scouring!"  he  said  to  himself.  "Well,  women  beat  all! 
He  treats  her  like  a  Patagonian;  leaves  her  to  drift  with 
his  child  not  yet  born;  rakes  the  hutches  of  the  towns  and 
the  kraals  of  the  veld  for  women — always  women,  black 
or  white,  it  didn't  matter;  and  yet,  by  gad,  she  wants 
him  back!" 

She  seemed  to  understand  what  was  passing  in  his 
mind.  Rising,  with  a  bitter  laugh  which  he  long  remem- 
bered, she  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  in  silence,  then  she 
spoke,  her  voice  shaking  with  scorn: 

"You  think  it  is  love  for  him  that  prompts  me  now?" 
Her  eyes  blazed,  but  there  was  a  contemptuous  laugh  at 
her  lips,  and  she  nervously  pulled  at  the  tails  of  her  sable 
muff.  "You  are  wrong — absolutely.  I  would  rather 
bury  myself  in  the  mud  of  the  Thames  than  let  him  touch 
me.  Oh,  I  know  what  his  life  must  have  been — the  life 
of  him  that  you  know!  With  him  it  would  either  be 
the  sewer  or  the  sycamore-tree  of  Zaccheus;  either  the 
little  upper  chamber  among  the  saints  or  eating  husks 
with  the  swine.  I  realize  him  now.  He  was  easily  sus- 
ceptible to  good  and  evil,  to  the  clean  and  the  unclean; 
and  he  might  have  been  kept  in  order  by  some  one  who 
would  give  a  life  to  building  up  his  character;  but 
his  nature  was  rickety,  and  he  has  gone  down  and 
not  up." 

"Then  why  try  to  save  him?  Let  Oom  Paul  have  him. 
He'll  do  no  more  harm,  if — " 

"Wait  a  minute,"  she  urged.  "You  are  a  great  man" 
— she  came  close  to  him — "and  you  ought  to  understand 
what  I  mean,  without  my  saying  it.  I  want  to  save  him 
for  his  own  sake,  not  for  mine — to  give  him  a  chance. 
While  there's  life  there's  hope.  To  go  as  he  is,  with  the 
mud  up  to  his  lips — ah,  can't  you  see!  He  is  the  father 
of  my  dead  child.  I  like  to  feel  that  he  may  make  some- 
59 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

thing  of  his  life  and  of  himself  yet.     That's  why  I  haven't 
tried  to  divorce  him,  and — " 

"If  you  ever  want  to  do  so — "  he  interrupted,  mean- 
ingly. 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  have  always  been  sure  that  nothing 
could  be  quite  so  easy;  but  I  waited,  on  the  chance  of 
something  getting  hold  of  him  which  would  lift  him  out 
of  himself,  give  him  something  to  think  of  so  much  greater 
than  himself,  some  cause,  perhaps — " 

"He  had  you  and  your  unborn  child,"  he  intervened. 

"Me — !"  She  laughed  bitterly.  "I  don't  think  men 
would  ever  be  better  because  of  me.  I've  never  seen 
that.  I've  seen  them  show  the  worst  of  human  nature 
because  of  me  —  and  it  wasn't  inspiring.  I've  not  met 
many  men  who  weren't  on  the  low  levels." 

"He  hasn't  stood  his  trial  for  the  Johannesburg  con- 
spiracy yet.  How  do  you  propose  to  help  him?  He  is 
in  real  danger  of  his  life." 

She  laughed  coldly,  and  looked  at  him  with  keen, 
searching  eyes.  "You  ask  that,  you  who  know  that  in 
the  armory  of  life  there's  one  all-powerful  weapon?" 

He  nodded  his  head  whimsically.  "Money?  Well, 
whatever  other  weapons  you  have,  you  must  have  that, 
I  admit.  And  in  the  Transvaal — " 

"Then  here,"  she  said,  handing  him  an  envelope — 
"here  is  what  may  help." 

He  took  it  hesitatingly.  "I  warn  you,"  he  remarked, 
"that  if  money  is  to  be  used  at  all,  it  must  be  a  great  deal. 
Kruger  will  put  up  the  price  to  the  full  capacity  of  the 
victim." 

"I  suppose  this  victim  has  nothing,"  she  ventured, 
quietly. 

"Nothing  but  what  the  others  give  him,  I  should  think. 
It  may  be  a  very  costly  business,  even  if  it  is  possible,  and 
you — " 

"I  have  twenty  thousand  pounds,"  she  said. 

"Earned  by  your  voice?"  he  asked,  kindly. 
60 


A    WOMAN   TELLS    HER    STORY 

"Every  penny  of  it." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  waste  it  on  Blantyre,  if  I  were  you. 
No,  by  Heaven,  you  shall  not  do  it,  even  if  it  can  be 
done!  It  is  too  horrible." 

"I  owe  it  to  myself  to  do  it.  After  all,  he  is  still  my 
husband.  I  have  let  it  be  so;  and  while  it  is  so,  and 
while" — her  eyes  looked  away,  her  face  suffused  slightly, 
her  lips  tightened — "while  things  are  as  they  are,  I  am 
bound — bound  by  something,  I  don't  know  what,  but  it 
is  not  love,  and  it  is  not  friendship — to  come  to  his  rescue. 
There  will  be  legal  expenses — " 

Byng  frowned.  "Yes,  but  the  others  wouldn't  see 
him  in  a  hole — yet  I'm  not  sure,  either,  Blantyre  being 
Blantyre.  In  any  case,  I'm  ready  to  do  anything  you 
wish." 

She  smiled  gratefully.  "Did  you  ever  know  any  one 
to  do  a  favor  who  wasn't  asked  to  repeat  it — paying  one 
debt  by  contracting  another,  finding  a  creditor  who  will 
trust,  and  trading  on  his  trust?  Yet  I'd  rather  owe  you 
two  debts  than  most  men  one."  She  held  out  her  hand 
to  him.  "Well,  it  doesn't  do  to  mope — 'The  merry  heart 
goes  all  the  day,  the  sad  one  tires  in  a  mile-a.'  And  I  am 
out  for  all  day.  Please  wish  me  a  happy  new  year." 

He  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his.  "  I  wish  you  to  go 
through  this  year  as  you  ended  the  last — in  a  blaze  of 
glory." 

"Yes,  really  a  blaze — if  not  of  glory,"  she  said,  with 
bright  tears,  yet  laughing,  too,  a  big  warm  humour  shining 
in  her  strong  face  with  the  dark  brown  eyes  and  the  thick, 
heavy  eyebrows  under  a  low,  broad  forehead  like  his 
own.  They  were  indeed  strangely  alike  in  many  ways 
both  of  mind  and  body. 

"They  say  we  end  the  year  as  we  begin  it,"  he  said, 
cheerily.  "You  proved  to  Destiny  that  you  were  en- 
titled to  all  she  could  give  in  the  old  year,  and  you  shall 
have  the  best  that's  to  be  had  in  1897.  You  are  a  woman 
in  a  million,  and — " 

61 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"May  I  come  and  breakfast  with  you  some  morning?" 
she  asked,  gaily. 

"Well,  if  ever  I'm  thought  worthy  of  that  honour,  don't 
hesitate.  As  the  Spanish  say,  It  is  all  yours."  He  waved 
a  hand  to  the  surroundings. 

"No,  it  is  all  yours"  she  said,  reflectively,  her  eyes  slow- 
ly roaming  about  her.  "It  is  all  you.  I'm  glad  to  have 
been  here,  to  be  as  near  as  this  to  your  real  life.  Real 
life  is  so  comforting  after  the  mock  kind  so  many  of  us 
live;  which  singers  and  actors  live  anyhow." 

She  looked  round  the  room  again.  "I  feel — I  don't 
know  why  it  is,  but  I  feel  that  when  I'm  in  trouble  I  shall 
always  want  to  come  to  this  room.  Yes,  and  I  will  surely 
come;  for  I  know  there's  much  trouble  in  store  for  me. 
You  must  let  me  come.  You  are  the  only  man  I  would 
go  to  like  this,  and  you  can't  think  what  it  means  to  me — 
to  feel  that  I'm  not  misunderstood,  and  that  it  seems 
absolutely  right  to  come.  That's  because  any  woman 
could  trust  you — as  I  do.  Good-bye." 

In  another  moment  she  had  gone,  and  he  stood  beside 
the  table  with  the  envelope  she  had  left  with  him.  Pres- 
ently he  opened  it,  and  unfolded  the  cheque  which  was  in 
it.  Then  he  gave  an  exclamation  of  astonishment. 

"Seven  thousand  pounds!"  he  exclaimed.  "That's  a 
better  estimate  of  Krugerism  than  I  thought  she  had. 
It  '11  take  much  more  than  that,  though,  if  it's  done  at  all; 
but  she  certainly  has  sense.  It's  seven  thousand  times  too 
much  for  Blantyre,"  he  added,  with  an  exclamation  of  dis- 
gust. ' '  Blantyre — that  outsider !' '  Then  he  fell  to  think- 
ing of  all  she  had  told  him.  "Poor  girl — poor  girl!"  he 
said  aloud.  "But  she  must  not  come  here,  just  the  same. 
She  doesn't  see  that  it's  not  the  thing,  just  because  she 
thinks  I'm  a  Sir  Galahad — me!"  He  glanced  at  the  pic- 
ture of  his  mother,  and  nodded  toward  it  tenderly.  "So 
did  she  always.  I  might  have  turned  Kurd  and  robbed 
caravans,  or  become  a  Turk  and  kept  concubines,  and 
she'd  never  have  seen  that  it  was  so.  But  Al'mah 
62 


A    WOMAN    TELLS    HER    STORY 

mustn't  come  here  any  more,  for  her  own  sake.  ...  I'd 
find  it  hard  to  explain  if  ever,  by  any  chance — " 

He  fell  to  thinking  of  Jasmine,  and  looked  at  the  clock. 
It  was  only  ten,  and  he  would  not  see  Jasmine  till  six; 
but  if  he  had  gone  to  South  Africa  he  would  not  have  seen 
her  at  all!  Fate  and  Wallstein  had  been  kind. 

Presently,  as  he  went  to  the  hall  to  put  on  his  coat  and 
hat  to  go  out,  he  met  Barry  Whalen.  Barry  looked  at 
him  curiously;  then,  as  though  satisfied,  he  said:  "Early 
morning  visitor,  eh?  I  just  met  her  coming  away.  Card 
of  thanks  for  kind  services  au  theatre,  eh?" 

"Well,  it  isn't  any  business  of  yours  what  it  is,  Barry," 
came  the  reply  in  tones  which  congealed. 

"No,  perhaps  not,"  answered  his  visitor,  testily,  for  he 
had  had  a  night  of  much  excitement,  and,  after  all,  this 
was  no  way  to  speak  to  a  friend,  to  a  partner  who  had  fol- 
lowed his  lead  always.  Friendship  should  be  allowed  some 
latitude,  and  he  had  said  hundreds  of  things  less  carefully 
to  Byng  in  the  past.  The  past — he  was  suddenly  con- 
scious that  Byng  had  changed  within  the  past  few  days, 
and  that  he  seemed  to  have  put  restraint  on  himself. 
Well,  he  would  get  back  at  him  just  the  same  for  the  snub. 

"It's  none  of  my  business,"  he  retorted,  "but  it's  a 
good  deal  of  Adrian  Fellowes'  business — " 

"What  is  a  good  deal  of  Adrian  Fellowes'  business?" 

"Al'mah  coming  to  your  rooms.  Fellowes  is  her  man. 
Going  to  marry  her,  I  suppose,"  he  added,  cynically. 

Byng's  jaw  set  and  his  eyes  became  cold.  "Still,  I'd 
suggest  your  minding  your  own  business,  Barry.  Your 
tongue  will  get  you  into  trouble  some  day.  .  .  .  You've 
seen  Wallstein  this  morning — and  Fleming?" 

Barry  replied  sullenly,  and  the  day's  pressing  work  be- 
gan, with  the  wires  busy  under  the  seas. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WITHIN  THE   POWER-HOUSE 

A?  a  few  moments  before  six  o'clock  Byng  was  shown 
into  Jasmine's  sitting-room.  As  he  entered,  the 
man  who  sat  at  the  end  of  the  front  row  of  stalls  the  first 
night  of  "Manassa"  rose  to  his  feet.  It  was  Adrian  Fel- 
lowes,  slim,  well  groomed,  with  the  colour  of  an  apple  in 
his  cheeks,  and  his  gold-brown  hair  waving  harmoniously 
over  his  unintellectual  head. 

"But,  Adrian,  you  are  the  most  selfish  man  I've  ever 
known,"  Jasmine  was  saying  as  Byng  entered. 

Either  Jasmine  did  not  hear  the  servant  announce  Byng, 
or  she  pretended  not  to  do  so,  and  the  words  were  said  so 
distinctly  that  Byng  heard  them  as  he  came  forward. 

"Well,  he  is  selfish,"  she  added  to  Byng,  as  she  shook 
hands.  "I've  known  him  since  I  was  a  child,  and  he 
has  always  had  the  best  of  everything  and  given  nothing 
for  it."  Turning  again  to  Fellowes,  she  continued:  "Yes, 
it's  true.  The  golden  apples  just  fall  into  your  hands." 

"Well,  I  wish  I  had  the  apples,  since  you  give  me  the 
reputation,"  Fellowes  replied,  and,  shaking  hands  with 
Byng,  who  gave  him  an  enveloping  look  and  a  friendly 
greeting,  he  left  the  room. 

"Such  a  boy — Adrian,"  Jasmine  said,  as  they  sat 
down. 

"Boy — he  looks  thirty  or  more!"  remarked  Byng  in  a 
dry  tone. 

"He  is  just  thirty.  I  call  him  a  boy  because  he  is 
so  young  in  most  things  that  matter  to  people.  He  is 
the  most  sumptuous  person — entirely  a  luxury.  Did  you 
64 


WITHIN    THE    POWER-HOUSE 

ever  see  such  colouring — like  a  woman's!  But  selfish,  as 
I  said,  and  useful,  too,  is  Adrian.  Yes,  he  really  is  very 
useful.  He  would  be  a  private  secretary  beyond  price 
to  any  one  who  needed  such  an  article.  He  has  tact — 
as  you  saw — and  would  make  a  wonderful  master  of  cere- 
monies, a  splendid  comptroller  of  the  household  and 
equerry  and  lord-chamberlain  in  one.  There,  if  ever  you 
want  such  a  person,  or  if — " 

She  paused.  As  she  did  so  she  was  sharply  conscious 
of  the  contrast  between  her  visitor  and  Ian  Stafford  in 
outward  appearance.  Byng's  clothes  were  made  by  good 
hands,  but  they  were  made  by  tailors  who  knew  their 
man  was  not  particular,  and  that  he  would  not  "try  on." 
The  result  was  a  looseness  and  carelessness  of  good  things 
— giving  him,  in  a  way,  the  look  of  shambling  power. 
Yet  in  spite  of  the  tie  a  little  crooked,  and  the  trousers  a 
little  too  large  and  too  short,  he  had  touches  of  that 
distinction  which  power  gives.  His  large  hands  with  the 
square-pointed  fingers  had  obtrusive  veins,  but  they  were 
not  common. 

"Certainly,"  he  intervened,  smiling  indulgently;  "if 
ever  I  want  a  comptroller,  or  an  equerry,  or  a  lord-cham- 
berlain, I'll  remember  'Adrian.'  In  these  days  one  can 
never  tell.  There's  the  Sahara.  It  hasn't  been  exploited 
yet.  It  has  no  emperor." 

"I  like  you  in  this  mood,"  she  said,  eagerly.  "You 
seem  on  the  surface  so  tremendously  practical  and  sen- 
sible. You  frighten  me  a  little,  and  I  like  to  hear  you 
touch  things  off  with  raillery.  But,  seriously,  if  you  can 
ever  put  anything  in  that  boy's  way,  please  do  so.  He  has 
had  bad  luck — in  your  own  Rand  mine.  He  lost  nearly 
everything  in  that,  speculating,  and — " 

Byng's  face  grew  serious  again.  "But  he  shouldn't 
have  speculated;  he  should  have  invested.  It  wants 
brains,  good  fortune,  daring  and  wealth  to  speculate. 
But  I  will  remember  him,  if  you  say  so.  I  don't  like  to 
think  that  he  has  been  hurt  in  any  enterprise  of  mine. 
65 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

I'll  keep  him  in  mind.  Make  him  one  of  my  secretaries 
perhaps." 

Then  Barry  Whalen's  gossip  suddenly  came  to  his 
mind,  and  he  added:  "Fellowes  will  want  to  get  married 
some  day.  That  face  and  manner  will  lead  him  into 
ways  from  which  there's  only  one  outlet." 

"Matrimony?"  She  laughed.  "Oh  dear,  no,  Adrian 
is  much  too  selfish  to  marry." 

"I  thought  that  selfishness  was  one  of  the  elements  of 
successful  marriages.  I've  been  told  so." 

A  curious  look  stole  into  her  eyes.  All  at  once  she 
wondered  if  his  words  had  any  hidden  meaning,  and  she 
felt  angrily  self-conscious;  but  she  instantly  put  the  re- 
flection away,  for  if  ever  any  man  travelled  by  the  straight 
Roman  road  of  speech  and  thought,  it  was  he.  He  had 
only  been  dealing  in  somewhat  obvious  worldly  wisdom. 

"You  ought  not  to  give  encouragement  to  such  ideas 
by  repeating  them,"  she  rejoined  with  raillery.  "This  is 
an  age  of  telepathy  and  suggestion,  and  the  more  silent 
we  are  the  safer  we  are.  Now,  please,  tell  me  everything 
— of  the  inside,  I  mean — about  Cecil  Rhodes  and  the 
Raiders.  Is  Rhodes  overwhelmed?  And  Mf.  Chamber- 
lain— you  have  seen  him?  The  .papers  say  you  have 
spent  many  hours  at  the  Colonial  Office.  I  suppose* 
you  were  with  him  at  six  o'clock  last  evening,  instead  of 
being  here  with  me,  as  you  promised." 

He  shook  his  head.  "Rhodes?  The  bigger  a  man  is 
the  greater  the  crash  when  he  falls;  and  no  big  man  falls 
alone." 

She  nodded.  "There's  the  sense  of  power,  too,  which 
made  everything  vibrate  with  energy,  which  gave  a  sense 
of  great  empty  places  filled — of  that  power  withdrawn 
and  collapsed.  Even  the  bad  great  man  gone  leaves  a 
sense  of  desolation  behind.  Power — power,  that  is  the 
thing  of  all,"  she  said,  her  eyes  shining  and  her  small 
fingers  interlacing  with  eager  vitality:  "power  to  set 
waves  of  influence  in  motion  which  stir  the  waters  on  dis- 
66 


WITHIN    THE    POWER-HOUSE 

tant  shores.  That  seems  to  me  the  most  wonderful 
thing." 

Her  vitality,  her  own  sense  of  power,  seemed  almost 
incongruous.  She  was  so  delicately  made,  so  much  the 
dresden-china  shepherdess,  that  intensity  seemed  out  of 
relation  to  her  nature.  Yet  the  tiny  hands  playing  be- 
fore her  with  natural  gestures  like  those  of  a  child  had, 
too,  a  decision  and  a  firmness  in  keeping  with  the  per- 
fectly modelled  head  and  the  courageous  poise  of  the  body. 
There  was  something  regnant  in  her,  while,  too,  there  was 
something  sumptuous  and  sensuous  and  physically  thrill- 
ing to  the  senses.  To-day  she  was  dressed  in  an  exquisite 
blue  gown,  devoid  of  all  decoration  save  a  little  chinchilla 
fur,  which  only  added  to  its  softness  and  richness.  She 
wore  no  jewelry  whatever  except  a  sapphire  brooch,  and 
her  hair  shone  and  waved  like  gossamer  in  the  sun. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  rejoined,  admiration  unbound- 
ed in  his  eyes  for  the  picture  she  was  of  maidenly  charm 
and  womanly  beauty,  "I  should  say  that  goodness  was 
a  more  wonderful  thing.  But  power  is  the  most  common 
ambition,  and  only  a  handful  of  the  hundreds  of  millions 
get  it  in  any  large  way.  I  used  to  feel  it  tremendously 
when  I  first  heard  the  stamps  pounding  the  quartz  in  the 
mills  on  the  Rand.  You  never  heard  that  sound?  In 
the  clear  height  of  that  plateau  the  air  reverberates  great- 
ly; and  there's  nothing  on  earth  which  so  much  gives  a 
sense  of  power — power  that  crushes — as  the  stamps  of  a 
great  mine  pounding  away  night  and  day.  There  they 
go,  thundering  on,  till  it  seems  to  you  that  some  unearthly 
power  is  hammering  the  world  into  shape.  You  get  up 
and  go  to  the  window  and  look  out  into  the  night.  "There's 
the  deep  blue  sky — blue  like  nothing  you  ever  saw  in  any 
other  sky,  and  the  stars  so  bright  and  big,  and  so  near, 
that  you  feel  you  could  reach  up  and  pluck  one  with  your 
hand;  and  just  over  the  little  hill  are  the  lights  of  the 
stamp-mills,  the  smoke  and  the  mad  red  flare,  the  roar  of 
great  hammers  as  they  crush,  crush,  crush;  while  the 
67 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

vibration  of  the  earth  makes  you  feel  that  you  are  living 
in  a  world  of  Titans." 

"And  when  it  all  stops?"  she  asked,  almost  breath- 
lessly. "When  the  stamps  pound  no  more,  and  the 
power  is  withdrawn?  It  is  empty  and  desolate — and 
frightening?" 

"It  is  anything  you  like.  If  all  the  mills  all  at  once, 
with  the  thousands  of  stamps  on  the  Rand  reef,  were  to 
stop  suddenly,  and  the  smoke  and  the  red  flare  were  to 
die,  it  would  be  frightening  in  more  ways  than  one.  But 
I  see  what  you  mean.  There  might  be  a  sense  of  peace, 
but  the  minds  and  bodies  which  had  been  vibrating  with 
the  stir  of  power  would  feel  that  the  soul  had  gone  out  of 
things,  and  they  would  dwindle  too." 

"If  Rhodes  should  fall,  if  the  stamps  on  the  Rand 
should  cease — ?" 

He  got  to  his  feet.  "Either  is  possible,  maybe  prob- 
able; and  I  don't  want  to  think  of  it.  As  you  say,  there'd 
be  a  ghastly  sense  of  emptiness  and  a  deadly  kind  of 
peace."  He  smiled  bitterly. 

She  rose  now  also,  and  fingering  some  flowers  in  a  vase, 
arranging  them  afresh,  said:  "Well,  this  Jameson  Raid, 
if  it  is  proved  that  Cecil  Rhodes  is  mixed  up  in  it,  will  it 
injure  you  greatly — I  mean  your  practical  interests?" 

He  stood  musing  for  a  moment.  "It's  difficult  to  say 
at  this  distance.  One  must  be  on  the  spot  to  make  a 
proper  estimate.  Anything  may  happen." 

She  was  evidently  anxious  to  ask  him  a  question,  but 
hesitated.  At  last  she  ventured,  and  her  breath  came  a 
little  shorter  as  she  spoke. 

"I  suppose  you  wish  you  were  in  South  Africa  now. 
You  could  do  so  much  to  straighten  things  out,  to  prevent 
the  worst.  The  papers  say  you  have  a  political  mind — 
the  statesman's  intelligence,  the  Times  said.  ThStt  letter 
you  wrote,  that  speech  you  made  at  the  Chamber  of 
Commerce  dinner — " 

She  watched  him,  dreading  what  his  answer  might  be. 
68 


WITHIN    THE    POWER-HOUSE 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  then  he  answered: 
"Fleming  is  going  to  South  Africa,  not  myself.  I  stay 
here  to  do  Wallstein's  work.  I  was  going,  but  Wallstein 
was  taken  ill  suddenly.  So  I  stay — I  stay." 

She  sank  down  in  her  chair,  going  a  little  pale  from 
excitement.  The  whiteness  of  her  skin  gave  a  delicate 
beauty  to  the  faint  rose  of  her  cheeks — that  rose-pink 
which  never  was  to  fade  entirely  from  her  face  while  life 
was  left  to  her. 

"  If  it  had  been  necessary,  when  would  you  have  gone?" 
she  asked. 

"At  once.     Fleming  goes  to-morrow,"  he  added. 

She  looked  slowly  up  at  him.  ' '  Wallstein  is  a  new  name 
for  a  special  Providence,"  she  murmured,  and  the  colour 
came  back  to  her  face.  "We  need  you  here.  We — " 

Suddenly  a  thought  flashed  into  his  mind  and  suffused 
his  face.  He  was  conscious  of  that  perfume  which  clung 
to  whatever  she  touched.  It  stole  to  his  senses  and  in- 
toxicated them.  He  looked  at  her  with  enamoured  eyes. 
He  had  the  heart  of  a  boy,  the  impulsiveness  of  a  nature 
which  had  been  unschooled  in  women's  ways.  Weak- 
nesses in  other  directions  had  taught  him  much,  but  ex- 
periences with  her  sex  had  been  few.  The  designs  of 
other  women  had  been  patent  to  him,  and  he  had  been 
invincible  to  all  attack;  but  here  was  a  girl  who,  with 
her  friendly  little  fortune  and  her  beauty,  could  marry 
with  no  difficulty;  who,  he  had  heard,  could  pick  and 
choose,  and  had  so  far  rejected  all  comers;  and  who, 
if  she  had  shown  preference  at  all,  had  shown  it  for  a 
poor  man  like  Ian  Stafford.  She  had  courage  and  sim- 
plicity and  a  downright  mind;  that  was  clear.  And  she 
was  capable.  She  had  a  love  for  big  things,  for  the 
things  that  mattered.  Every  word  she  had  ever  said  to 
him  had  understanding,  not  of  the  world  alone,  and 
of  life,  but  of  himself,  Rudyard  Byng.  She  grasped 
exactly  what  he  would  say,  and  made  him  say  things 
he  would  never  have  thought  of  saying  to  any  one 
69 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

else.  She  drew  him  out,  made  tb3  most  of  him,  made 
him  think.  Other  women  only  tned  to  make  him  feel. 
If  he  had  had  a  girl  like  this  beside  him  during  the  last 
ten  years,  how  many  wasted  hours  would  have  been 
saved,  how  many  bottles  of  champagne  would  not  have 
been  opened,  how  many  wild  nights  would  have  been 
spent  differently! 

Too  good,  too  fine  for  him — yes,  a  hundred  times,  but 
he  would  try  to  make  it  up  to  her,  if  such  a  girl  as  this 
could  endure  him.  He  was  not  handsome,  he  was  not 
clever,  so  he  said  to  himself,  but  he  had  a  little  power. 
That  he  had  to  some  degree — rough  power,  of  course,  but 
power;  and  she  loved  power,  force.  Had  she  not  said 
so,  shown  it,  but  a  moment  before?  Was  it  possible  that 
she  was  really  interested  in  him,  perhaps  because  he 
was  different  from  the  average  Englishman  and  not  of  a 
general  pattern?  She  was  a"  woman  of  brains,  of  great 
individuality,  and  his  own  individuality  might  influence 
her.  It  was  too  good  to  be  true;  but  there  had  ever  been 
something  of  the  gambler  in  him,  and  he  had  always 
plunged.  If  he  ever  had  a  conviction  he  acted  on  it 
instantly,  staked  everything,  when  that  conviction  got 
into  his  inner  being.  It  was  not,  perhaps,  a  good  way, 
and  it  had  failed  often  enough;  but  it  was  his  way,  and 
he  had  done  according  to  the  light  and  the  impulse  that 
were  in  him.  He  had  no  diplomacy,  he  had  only  purpose. 

He  came  over  to  her.  "If  I  had  gone  to  South  Africa 
would  you  have  remembered  my  name  for  a  month?"  he 
asked  with  determination  and  meaning. 

"My  friends  never  suffer  lunar  eclipse,"  she  an- 
swered, gaily.  "Dear  sir,  I  am  called  Hold-Fast.  My 
friends  are  century-flowers  and  are  always  blooming." 

"You  count  me  among  your  friends?" 

"  I  hope  so.  You  will  let  me  make  all  England  envious 
of  me,  won't  you?  I  never  did  you  any  harm,  and  I  do 
want  to  have  a  hero  in  my  tiny  circle." 

"  A  hero — you  mean  me  ?  Well,  I  begin  to  think  I  have 
70 


WITHIN    THE    POWER-HOUSE 

some  courage  when  I  ask  you  to  let  me  inside  your  'tiny- 
circle.  I  suppose  most  people  would  think  it  audacity, 
not  courage." 

"You  seem  not  to  be  aware  what  an  important  person 
you  are — how  almost  sensationally  important.  Why, 
I  am  only  a  pebble  on  a  shore  like  yours,  a  little  unknown 
slip  of  a  girl  who  babbles,  and  babbles  in  vain." 

She  got  to  her  feet  now.  "Oh,  but  believe  me,  believe 
me,"  she  said,  with  sweet  and  sudden  earnestness,  "I  am 
prouder  than  I  can  say  that  you  will  let  me  be  a  friend 
of  yours!  I  like  men  who  have  done  things,  who  do 
things.  My  grandfather  did  big,  world-wide  things, 
and — " 

"Yes,  I  know;  I  met  your  grandfather  once.  He  was 
a  big  man,  big  as  can  be.  He  had  the  world  by  the  ear 
always." 

"He  spoiled  me  for  the  commonplace,"  she  replied. 
"If  I  had  lived  in  Pizarro's  time,  I'd  have  gone  to  Peru 
with  him,  the  splendid  robber." 

He  answered  with  the  eager  frankness  and  humour  of 
a  boy.  "If  you  mean  to  be  a  friend  of  mine,  there  are 
those  who  wul  think  that  in  one  way  you  have  fulfilled 
your  ambition,  for  they  say  I've  spoiled  the  Peruvians, 
too." 

"I  like  you  when  you  say  things  like  that,"  she  mur- 
mured. "  If  you  said  them  often — " 

She  looked  at  him  archly,  and  her  eyes  brimmed  with 
amusement  and  excitement. 

Suddenly  he  caught  both  her  hands  in  his  and  his  eyes 
burned.  "Will  you — " 

He  paused.  His  courage  forsook  him.  Boldness  had 
its  limit.  He  feared  a  repulse  which  could  never  be  over- 
come. "Will  you,  and  all  of  you  here,  come  down  to 
my  place  in  Wales  next  week?"  he  blundered  out. 

She  was  glad  he  had  faltered.  It  was  too  bewildering. 
She  dared  not  yet  face  the  question  she  had  seen  he  was 
about  to  ask.  Power — yes,  he  could  give  her  that;  but 
6  71 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

power  was  the  craving  of  an  ambitious  soul.  There  were 
other  things.  There  was  the  desire  of  the  heart,  the 
longing  which  came  with  music  and  the  whispering  trees 
and  the  bright  stars,  the  girlish  dreams  of  ardent  love  and 
the  garlands  of  youth  and  joy — and  Ian  Stafford. 

Suddenly  she  drew  herself  together.  She  was  conscious 
that  the  servant  was  entering  the  room  with  a  letter. 

"The  messenger  is  waiting,"  the  servant  said. 

With  an  apology  she  opened  the  note  slowly  as  Byng 
turned  to  the  fire.  She  read  the  page  with  a  strange, 
tense  look,  closing  her  eyes  at  last  with  a  slight  sense  of 
dizziness.  Then  she  said  to  the  servant: 

"Tell  the  messenger  to  wait.     I  will  write  an  answer." 

"  I  am  sure  we  shall  be  glad  to  go  to  you  in  Wales  next 
week,"  she  added,  turning  to  Byng  again.  "But  won't 
you  be  far  away  from  the  centre  of  things  in  Wales?" 

"I've  had  the  telegraph  and  a  private  telephone  wire 
to  London  put  in.  I  shall  be  as  near  the  centre  as  though 
I  lived  in  Grosvenor  Square;  and  there  are  always  special 
trains." 

"Special  trains — oh,  but  it's  wonderful  to  have  power 
to  do  things  like  that!  When  do  you  go  down?"  she 
asked. 

"To-morrow  morning." 

She  smiled  radiantly.  She  saw  that  he  was  angry  with 
himself  for  his  cowardice  just  now,  and  she  tried  to  re- 
store him.  "Please,  will  you  telephone  me  when  you 
arrive  at  your  castle?  I  should  like  the  experience  of 
telephoning  by  private  wire  to  Wales." 

He  brightened.  "Certainly,  if  you  really  wish  it.  I 
shall  arrive  at  ten  to-morrow  night,  and  I'll  telephone 
you  at  eleven." 

"Splendid — splendid!  I'll  be  alone  in  my  room  then. 
I've  got  a  telephone  instrument  there,  and  so  we  could 
say  good-night." 

"So  we  can  say  good-night,"  he  repeated  in  a  low  voice, 
>nd  he  held  out  his  hand  in  good-bye. 
72 


WITHIN    THE    POWER-HOUSE 

When  he  had  gone,  with  a  new,  great  hope  in  his  heart, 
she  sat  down  and  tremblingly  re-opened  the  note  she  had 
received  a  moment  before. 

"I  am  going  abroad" — it  read — "to  Paris,  Berlin,  Vienna,  and 
St.  Petersburg.  I  think  I've  got  my  chance  at  last.  I  want  to  see 
you  before  I  go — this  evening,  Jasmine.  May  I?" 

It  was  signed  "Ian." 

"Fate  is  stronger  than  we  are,"  she  murmured;  "and 
Fate  is  not  kind  to  you,  Ian,"  she  added,  wearily,  a  wan 
look  coming  into  her  face. 

"Mio  destino,"  she  said  at  last — "mio  destino!"  But 
who  was  her  destiny — which  of  the  two  who  loved  her? 


BOOK   II 


BOOK    II 

CHAPTER   VII 

THREE   YEARS   LATER 


speshul—  extra  speshul—  all  about  Kruger 
an'  his  guns!" 

The  shrill,  acrid  cry  rang  down  St.  James's  Street,  and 
a  newsboy  with  a  bunch  of  pink  papers  under  his  arm  shot 
hither  and  thither  on  the  pavement,  offering  his  sensa- 
tional wares  to  all  he  met. 

"Extra  speshul  —  extra  speshul  —  all  about  the  war 
wot's  comin'  —  all  about  Kruger's  guns!" 

From  an  open  window  on  the  second  floor  of  a  building 
in  the  street  a  man's  head  was  thrust  out,  listening. 

"The  war  wot's  comin'  !"  he  repeated,  with  a  bitter  sort 
of  smile.  "And  all  about  Kruger's  guns.  So  it  is  coming, 
is  it,  Johnny  Bull;  and  you  do  know  all  about  his  guns, 
do  you?  If  it  is,  and  you  do  know,  then  a  shattering  big 
thing  is  coming,  and  you  know  quite  a  lot,  Johnny  Bull." 

He  hummed  to  himself  an  impromptu  refrain  to  an 
impromptu  tune: 

"Then  you  know  quite  a  lot,  Johnny  Bull,  Johnny  Bull, 
Then  you  know  quite  a  lot,  Johnny  Bull!" 

Stepping  out  of  the  French  window  upon  a  balcony  now, 
he  looked  down  the  street.  The  newsboy  was  almost 
below.  He  whistled,  and  the  lad  looked  up.  In  response 
to  a  beckoning  finger  the  gutter-snipe  took  the  doorway 
and  the  staircase  at  a  bound.  Like  all  his  kind,  he  was 
77 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

a  good  judge  of  character,  and  one  glance  had  assured 
him  that  he  was  speeding  upon  a  visit  of  profit.  Half  a 
postman's  knock — a  sharp,  insistent  stroke — and  he  en- 
tered, his  thin  weasel-like  face  thrust  forward,  his  eyes 
glittering.  The  fire  in  such  eyes  is  always  cold,  for  hun- 
ger is  poor  fuel  to  the  native  flame  of  life. 

"Extra  speshul,  m'lord — all  about  Kruger's  guns." 

He  held  out  the  paper  to  the  figure  that  darkened  the  win- 
dow, and  he  pronounced  the  g  in  Kruger  soft,  as  in  Scrooge. 

The  hand  that  took  the  paper  deftly  slipped  a  shilling 
into  the  cold,  skinny  palm.  At  its  first  touch  the  face  of 
the  paper-vender  fell,  for  it  was  the  same  size  as  a  half- 
penny; but  even  before  the  swift  ringers  had  had  a  chance 
to  feel  the  coin,  or  the  glance  went  down,  the  face  regained 
its  confidence,  for  the  eyes  looking  at  him  were  generous. 
He  had  looked  at  so  many  faces  in  his  brief  day  that  he 
was  an  expert  observer. 

"Thank  y'  kindly,"  he  said;  then,  as  the  fingers  made 
assurance  of  the  fortune  which  had  come  to  him,  "Ow, 
thank  ye  werry  much,  y'r  gryce,"  he  added. 

Something  alert  and  determined  in  the  face  of  the  boy 
struck  the  giver  of  the  coin  as  he  opened  the  paper  to 
glance  at  its  contents,  and  he  paused  to  scan  him  more 
closely.  He  saw  the  hunger  in  the  lad's  eyes  as  they 
swept  over  the  breakfast-table,  still  heavy  with  uneaten 
breakfast — bacon,  nearly  the  whole  of  an  omelette,  and 
rolls,  toast,  marmalade  and  honey. 

"Wait  a  second,"  he  said,  as  the  boy  turned  toward  the 
door. 

"Yes,  y'r  gryce." 

"Had  your  breakfast?" 

"I  has  me  brekfist  w'en  I  sells  me  pypers."  The  lad 
hugged  the  remaining  papers  closer  under  his  arms,  and 
kept  his  face  turned  resolutely  away  from  the  inviting 
table.  His  host  correctly  interpreted  the  action. 

"Poor  little  devil — grit,  pure  grit!"  he  said  under  his 
breath.  "  How  many  papers  have  you  got  left  ?"Lhe  asked, 
78 


THREE    YEARS    LATER 

The  lad  counted  like  lightning.  "Ten,"  he  answered. 
"  I'll  soon  get  'em  off  now.  Luck  's  wiv  me  dis  mornin'." 
The  ghost  of  a  smile  lighted  his  face. 

"I'll  take  them  all,"  the  other  said,  handing  over  a 
second  shilling. 

The  lad  fumbled  for  change  and  the  fumbling  was  due 
to  honest  agitation.  He  was  not  used  to  this  kind  of 
treatment. 

"No,  that's  all  right,"  the  other  interposed. 

"But  they're  only  a  h'ypenny,"  urged  the  lad,  for  his 
natural  cupidity  had  given  way  to  a  certain  fine  faculty 
not  too  common  in  any  grade  of  human  society. 

"Well,  I'm  buying  them  at  a  penny  this  morning. 
I've  got  some  friends  who'll  be  glad  to  give  a  penny  to 
know  all  about  Kruger's  guns."  He  too  softened  the  g 
in  Kruger  in  consideration  of  his  visitor's  idiosyn- 
crasies. 

"You  won't  be  mykin'  anythink  on  them,  y'r  gryce," 
said  the  lad  with  a  humour  which  opened  the  doors  of  Ian 
Stafford's  heart  wide;  for  to  him  heaven  itself  would  be 
insupportable  if  it  had  no  humorists. 

"I'll  get  at  them  in  other  ways,"  Stafford  rejoined. 
"I'll  get  my  profit,  never  fear.  Now  what  about  break- 
fast? You've  sold  all  your  papers,  you  know." 

"I'm  fair  ready  for  it,  y'r  gryce,"  was  the  reply,  and  now 
the  lad's  glance  went  eagerly  towards  the  door,  for  the 
tension  of  labour  was  relaxed,  and  hunger  was  scraping 
hard  at  his  vitals. 

"Well,  sit  down — this  breakfast  isn't  cold  yet.  .  .  . 
But,  no,  you'd  better  have  a  wash-up  first,  if  you  can 
wait,"  Stafford  added,  and  rang  a  bell. 

"Wot,  'ere — brekfist  wiv  y'r  gryce  'ere?" 

"Well,  I've  had  mine" — Stafford  made  a  slight  grimace 
— "and  there's  plenty  left  for  you,  if  you  don't  mind  eating 
after  me." 

P  "I  dusted  me  clothes  dis  mornin',"  said  the  boy,  with 

an  attempt  to  justify  his  decision  to  eat  this  noble  break- 

79 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

fast.  "An'  I  washed  me  'ands — but  pypers  is  muck," 
he  added. 

A  moment  later  he  was  in  the  fingers  of  Gleg  the  valet 
in  the  bath-room,  and  Stafford  set  to  work  to  make  the 
breakfast  piping  hot  again.  It  was  an  easy  task,  as 
heaters  were  inseparable  from  his  bachelor  meals,  and, 
though  this  was  only  the  second  breakfast  he  had  eaten 
since  his  return  to  England  after  three  years'  absence, 
everything  was  in  order. 

For  Gleg  was  still  more  the  child  of  habit — and  decorous 
habit — than  himself.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  Gleg 
had  had  to  deal  with  his  master's  philanthropic  activities. 
Much  as  he  disapproved  of  them,  he  could  discriminate; 
and  there  was  that  about  the  newsboy  which  somehow 
disarmed  him.  He  went  so  far  as  to  heap  the  plate  of 
the  lad,  and  would  have  poured  the  coffee  too,  but  that 
his  master  took  the  pot  from  his  hand  and  with  a  nod  and 
a  smile  dismissed  him;  and  his  master's  smile  was  worth 
a  good  deal  to  Gleg.  It  was  an  exacting  if  well-paid 
service,  for  Ian  Stafford  was  the  most  particular  man  in 
Europe,  and  he  had  grown  excessively  so  during  the  past 
three  years,  which,  as  Gleg  observed,  had  brought  great, 
if  quiet,  changes  in  him.  He  had  grown  more  studious, 
more  watchful,  more  exclusive  in  his  daily  life,  and  ladies 
of  all  kinds  he  had  banished  from  direct  personal  share 
in  his  life.  There  were  no  more  little  tea-parties  and 
dejeuners  chez  lui,  duly  chaperoned  by  some  gracious 
cousin  or  aunt — for  there  was  no  embassy  in  Europe  where 
he  had  not  relatives. 

'"Ipped — a  bit  'ipped.  'E  'as  found  'em  out,  the 
'uzzies,"  Gleg  had  observed;  for  he  had  decided  that  the 
general  cause  of  the  change  in  his  master  was  Woman, 
though  he  did  not  know  the  particular  woman  who  had 
'"ipped"  him. 

As  the  lad  ate  his  wonderful  breakfast,  in  which  nearly 
half  a  pot  of  marmalade  and  enough  butter  for  three 
ordinary  people  figured,  Stafford  read  the  papers  atten- 
80 


THREE    YEARS    LATER 

tively,  to  give  his  guest  a  fair  chance  at  the  food  and  to 
overcome  his  self -consciousness.  He  got  an  occasional 
glance  at  the  trencherman,  however,  as  he  changed  the 
sheets,  stepped  across  the  room  to  get  a  cigarette,  or 
poked  the  small  fire — for,  late  September  as  it  was,  a  sud- 
den cold  week  of  rain  had  come  and  gone,  leaving  the 
air  raw;  and  a  fire  was  welcome. 

At  last,  when  he  realized  that  the  activities  of  the  table 
were  decreasing,  he  put  down  his  paper.  "  Is  it  all  right?" 
he  asked.  "Is  the  coffee  hot?" 

"  I  ain't  never  'ad  a  meal  like  that,  y'r  gryce,  not  never 
any  time,"  the  boy  answered,  with  a  new  sort  of  fire  in 
his  eyes. 

"Was  there  enough?" 

"I've  left  some,"  answered  his  guest,  looking  at  the  jar 
of  marmalade  and  half  a  slice  of  toast.  "I  likes  the  coffee 
hot — tykes  y'r  longer  to  drink  it,"  he  added. 

Ian  Stafford  chuckled.  He  was  getting  more  than  the 
worth  of  his  money.  He  had  nibbled  at  his  own  breakfast, 
with  the  perturbations  of  a  crossing  from  Flushing  still 
in  his  system,  and  its  equilibrium  not  fully  restored;  and 
yet,  with  the  waste  of  his  own  meal  and  the  neglect  of  his 
own  appetite,  he  had  given  a  great  and  happy  half -hour 
to  a  waif  of  humanity. 

As  he  looked  at  the  boy  he  wondered  how  many  thou- 
sands there  were  like  him  within  rifle-shot  from]  where 
he  sat,  and  he  thought  each  of  them  would  thank  what- 
ever gods  they  knew  for  such  a  neglected  meal.  The  words 
from  the  scare-column  of  the  paper  he  held  smote  his 
sight: 

"War  Inevitable — Transvaal  Bristling  with  Guns  and 
Loaded  to  the  Nozzle  with  War  Stores — Milner  and  Kruger 
No  Nearer  a  Settlement — Sullen  and  Contemptuous  Treat- 
ment of  British  Outlander."  .  .  .  And  so  on. 

And  if  war  came,  if  England  must  do  this  ugly  thing, 
fulfil  her  bitter  and  terrible  task,  then  what  about  suoh 
as  this  young  outlander  here,  this  outcast  from  home  and 
81 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

goodly  toil  and  civilized  conditions,  this  sickly  froth  of 
the  muddy  and  dolorous  stream  of  lower  England?  So 
much  withdrawn  from  the  sources  of  their  possible  relief, 
so  much  less  with  which  to  deal  with  their  miseries — 
perhaps  hundreds  of  millions,  mopped  up  by  the  parched 
and  unproductive  soil  of  battle  and  disease  and  loss. 

He  glanced  at  the  paper  again.  "Britons  Hold  Your 
Own,"  was  the  heading  of  the  chief  article.  "Yes,  we 
must  hold  our  own,"  he  said,  aloud,  with  a  sigh.  "If  it 
comes,  we  must  see  it  through;  but  the  breakfasts  will  be 
fewer.  It  works  down  one  way  or  another — it  all  works 
down  to  this  poor  little  devil  and  his  kind." 

"Now,  what's  your  name?"  he  asked. 

"Jigger,"  was  the  reply. 

"What  else?V 

"Nothin',  y'r  gryce." 

' '  Jigger — what  ? ' ' 

"It's  the  only  nyme  I  got,"  was  the  reply. 

"What's  your  father's  or  your  mother's  name?" 

"I  ain't  got  none.     I  only  got  a  sister." 

"What's  her  name?" 

"Lou,"  he  answered.  "That's  her  real  name.  But 
she  got  a  fancy  name  yistiddy.  She  was  took  on  at  the 
opera  yistiddy,  to  sing  with  a  hunderd  uwer  girls  on  the 
styge.  She's  Lulu  Luekingham  now." 

"Oh — Luekingham!"  said  Stafford,  with  a  smile,  for 
this  was  a  name  of  his  own  family,  and  of  much  account 
in  circles  he  frequented.  "And  who  gave  her  that  name? 
Who  were  her  godfathers  and  godmothers?" 

"I  dunno,  y'r  gryce.  There  wasn't  no  religion  in  it. 
They  said  she'd  have  to  be  called  somefink,  and  so  they 
called  her  that.  Lou  was  always  plenty  for  'er  till  she 
went  there  yistiddy." 

"What  did  she  do  before  yesterday?" 

"Sold  flowers  w'en  she  could  get  'em  to  sell.  'Twas 
when  she  couldn't  sell  her  flowers  that  she  piped  up  sort 
of  dead  wild — for  she  'adn't  'ad  nothin1  to  eat,  an'  she 
82 


THREE    YEARS    LATER 

was  fair  crusty.  It  was  then  a  gentleman,  'e  'eard  'er 
singin'  hot,  an'  he  says,  'That's  good  enough  for  a  start,' 
'e  says,  'an'  you  come  wiv  me,'  he  says.  'Not  much,' 
Lou  says,  'not  if  I  knows  it.  I  seed  your  kind  frequent.' 
But  'e  stuck  to  it,  an'  says,  'It's  stryght,  an'  a  lydy  will 
come  for  you  to-morrer,  if  you'll  be  'ere  on  this  spot,  or 
tell  me  w'ere  you  can  be  found.'  An'  Lou  says,  says  she, 
'You  buy  my  flowers,  so's  I  kin  git  me  bread-baskit  full, 
an'  then  I'll  think  it  over.'  An'  he  bought  'er  flowers,  an' 
give  'er  five  bob.  An'  Lou  paid  rent  for  both  of  us  wiv 
that,  an'  'ad  brekfist;  an'  sure  enough  the  lydy  come  next 
dy  an'  took  her  off.  She's  in  the  opery  now,  an'  she'll  'ave 
'er  brekfist  reg'lar.  I  seed  the  lydy  meself .  Her  picture  's 
on  the  '  oar  dings— : 

Suddenly  he  stopped.  " W'y,  that's  'er— that's  'er!"  he 
said,  pointing  to  the  mantel-piece. 

Stafford  followed  the  finger  and  the  glance.  It  was 
Al'mah's  portrait  in  the  costume  she  had  worn  over  three 
years  ago,  the  night  when  Rudyard  Byng  had  rescued 
her  from  the  flames.  He  had  bought  it  then.  It  had 
been  unpacked  again  by  Gleg,  and  put  in  the  place  it  had 
occupied  for  a  day  or  two  before  he  had  gone  out  of  Eng- 
land to  do  his  country's  work — and  to  face  the  bitterest 
disillusion  of  his  life;  to  meet  the  heaviest  blow  his  pride 
and  his  heart  had  ever  known. 

"So  that's  the  lady,  is  it?"  he  said,  musingly,  to  the 
boy,  who  nodded  assent. 

"Go  and  have  a  good  look  at  it,"  urged  Stafford. 

The  boy  did  so.  "It's  'er — done  up  for  the  opery,"  he 
declared. 

"Well,  Lulu  Luckingham  is  all  right,  then.  That  lady 
will  be  good  to  her." 

"Right.  As  soon  as  I  seed  her,  I  whispers  to  Lou, 
'You  keep  close  to  that  there  wall,'  I  sez.  'There's  a 
chimbley  in  it,  an'  you'll  never  be  cold,'  I  says  to  Lou." 

Stafford  laughed  softly  at  the  illustration.  Many  a 
time  the  lad  snuggled  up  to  a  wall  which  had  a  warm 
83 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

chimney,  and  he  had  got  his  figure  of  speech  from  real 
life. 

"Well,  what's  to  become  of  you?"  Stafford  asked. 

"Me — I'll  be  level  wiv  me  rent  to-day,"  he  answered, 
turning  over  the  two  shillings  and  some  coppers  in  his 
pocket;  "an'  Lou  and  me's  got  a  fair  start." 

Stafford  got  up,  came  over,  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  boy's 
shoulder.  "I'm  going  to  give  you  a  sovereign,"  he  said 
— "twenty  shillings,  for  your  fair  start;  and  I  want  you 
to  come  to  me  here  next  Sunday-week  to  breakfast,  and 
tell  me  what  you've  done  with  it." 

"Me — y'r  gryce!"  A  look  of  fright  almost  came  into 
the  lad's  face.  ' '  Twenty  bob — me !' ' 

The  sovereign  was  already  in  his  hand,  and  now  his  face 
suffused.  He  seemed  anxious  to  get  away,  and  looked 
round  for  his  cap.  He  couldn't  do  here  what  he  wanted 
to  do.  He  felt  that  he  must  burst. 

"Now,  off  you  go.  And  you  be  here  at  nine  o'clock  on 
Sunday-week  with  the  papers,  and  tell  me  what  you've 
done." 

"Gawd — my  Gawd!"  said  the  lad,  huskily.  The  next 
minute  he  was  out  in  the  hall,  and  the  door  was  shut  be- 
hind him.  A  moment  later,  hearing  a  whoop,  Stafford 
went  to  the  window  and,  looking  down,  he  saw  his  late 
visitor  turning  a  cart-wheel  under  the  nose  of  a  policeman, 
and  then,  with  another  whoop,  shooting  down  into  the 
Mall,  making  Lambeth  way. 

With  a  smile  he  turned  from  the  window.  "Well,  we 
shall  see,"  he  said.  "Perhaps  it  will  be  my  one  lucky 
speculation.  Who  knows — who  knows!" 

His  eye  caught  the  portrait  of  Al'mah  on  the  mantel- 
piece. He  went  over  and  stood  looking  at  it  musingly. 

"You  were  a  good  girl,"  he  said,  aloud.  "At  any  rate, 
you  wouldn't  pretend.  You'd  gamble  with  your  immor- 
tal soul,  but  you  wouldn't  sell  it — not  for  three  millions, 
not  for  a  hundred  times  three  millions.  Or  is  it  that  you 
are  all  alike,  you  women?  Isn't  there  one  of  you  that 
84 


THREE    YEARS    LATER 

can  be  absolutely  true  ?  Isn't  there  one  that  won't  smirch 
her  soul  and  kill  the  faith  of  those  that  love  her  for  some 
moment's  excitement,  for  gold  to  gratify  a  vanity,  or  to 
have  a  wider  sweep  to  her  skirts?  Vain,  vain,  vain — and 
dishonourable,  essentially  dishonourable.  There  might  be 
tragedies,  but  there  wouldn't  be  many  intrigues  if  women 
weren't  so  dishonourable — the  secret  orchard  rather  than 
the  open  highway  and  robbery  under  arms.  .  .  .  Whew, 
what  a  world  I" 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  for  a  moment,  his 
eyes  looking  straight  before  him;  then  he  stopped  short. 
"I  suppose  it's  natural  that,  coming  back  to  England,  I 
should  begin  to  unpack  a  lot  of  old  memories,  empty  out 
the  box-room,  and  come  across  some  useless  and  dis- 
carded things.  I'll  settle  down  presently;  but  it's  a  thor- 
oughly useless  business  turning  over  old  stock.  The  wise 
man  pitches  it  all  into  the  junk-shop,  and  cuts  his  losses." 

He  picked  up  the  Morning  Post  and  glanced  down  the 
middle  page — the  social  column  first — with  the  half- 
amused  reflection  that  he  hadn't  done  it  for  years,  and 
that  here  were  the  same  old  names  reappearing,  with  the 
same  brief  chronicles.  Here,  too,  were  new  names,  some 
of  them,  if  not  most  of  them,  of  a  foreign  turn  to  their 
syllables — New  York,  Melbourne,  Buenos  Ayres,  Johan- 
nesburg. His  lip  curled  a  little  with  almost  playful  scorn. 
At  St.  Petersburg,  Vienna,  and  elsewhere  he  had  been 
vaguely  conscious  of  these  social  changes;  but  they  did 
not  come  within  the  ambit  of  his  daily  life,  and  so  it  had 
not  mattered.  And  there  was  no  reason  why  it  should 
matter  now.  His  England  was  a  land  the  original  ele- 
ments of  which  would  not  change,  had  not  changed;  for 
the  old  small  inner  circle  had  not  been  invaded,  was  still 
impervious  to  the  wash  of  wealth  and  snobbery  and  push. 
That  refuge  had  its  sequestered  glades,  if  perchance  it  was 
unilluminating  and  rather  heavily  decorous;  so  that  he 
could  let  the  climbers,  the  toadies,  the  gold-spillers,  and 
the  bribers  have  the  middle  of  the  road. 
85 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

It  did  not  matter  so  much  that  London  was  changing 
fast.  The  old  clock  on  the  tower  of  St.  James's  would 
still  give  the  time  to  his  step  as  he  went  to  and  from  the 
Foreign  Office,  and  there  were  quiet  places  like  Kensing- 
ton Gardens  where  the  bounding  person  would  never 
think  to  stray.  Indeed,  they  never  strayed;  they  only 
rushed  and  pushed  where  their  spreading  tails  could  be 
seen  by  the  multitude.  They  never  got  farther  west  than 
Rotten  Row,  which  was  in  possession  of  three  classes  of 
people — those  who  sat  in  Parliament,  those  who  had  seats 
on  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  those  who  could  not  sit  their 
horses.  Three  years  had  not  done  it  all,  but  it  had  done 
a  good  deal ;  and  he  was  more  keenly  alive  to  the  changes 
and  developments  which  had  begun  long  before  he  left 
and  had  increased  vastly  since.  Wealth  was  more  and 
more  the  master  of  England — new-made  wealth;  and  some 
of  it  was  too  ostentatious  and  too  pretentious  to  condone, 
much  less  indulge. 

All  at  once  his  eye,  roaming  down  the  columns,  came 
upon  the  following  announcement: 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rudyard  Byng  have  returned  to  town  from  Scot- 
land for  a  few  days,  before  proceeding  to  Wales,  where  they  are 
presently  to  receive  at  Glencader  Castle  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of 
Sheffield,  the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Cleaves,  M.  Santon,  the  French 
Foreign  Minister,  the  Slavonian  Ambassador,  the  Earl  and  Countess 
of  Tynemouth,  and  Mr.  Tudor  Tempest." 

'"And  Mr.  Tudor  Tempest,'"  Ian  repeated  to  himself. 
"Well,  she  would.  She  would  pay  that  much  tribute  to 
her  own  genius.  Four-fifths  to  the  claims  of  the  body  and 
the  social  nervous  system,  and  one-fifth  to  the  desire  of 
the  soul.  Tempest  is  a  literary  genius  by  what  he  has 
done,  and  she  is  a  genius  by  nature,  and  with  so  much 
left  undone.  The  Slavonian  Ambassador — h'm,  and  the 
French  Foreign  Minister!  That  looks  like  a  useful  com- 
bination at  this  moment — at  this  moment.  She  has  a 
gift  for  combinations,  a  wonderful  skill,  a  still  more  won- 
86 


THREE    YEARS    LATER 

derful  perception — and  a  remarkable  unscrupulousness. 
She's  the  naturally  ablest  woman  I  have  ever  known;  but 
she  wants  to  take  short-cuts  to  a  worldly  Elysium,  and 
it  can't  be  done,  not  even  with  three  times  three  millions 
— and  three  millions  was  her  price." 

Suddenly  he  got  up  and  went  over  to  a  table  where 
were  several  dispatch-boxes.  Opening  one,  he  drew  forth 
from  the  bottom,  where  he  had  placed  it  nearly  three 
years  ago,  a  letter.  He  looked  at  the  long,  sliding  hand- 
writing, so  graceful  and  fine,  he  caught  the  perfume  which 
had  intoxicated  Rudyard  Byng,  and,  stooping  down,  he 
sniffed  the  dispatch-box.  He  nodded. 

"She's  pervasive  in  everything,"  he  murmured.  He 
turned  over  several  other  packets  of  letters  in  the  box. 
' '  I  apologize, ' '  he  said,  ironically,  to  these  letters.  ' '  I  ought 
to  have  banished  her  long  ago,  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  didn't  realize  how  much  she'd  influence  everything — 
even  in  a  box."  He  laughed  cynically,  and  slowly  opened 
the  one  letter  which  had  meant  so  much  to  him.  . 

There  was  no  show  of  agitation.  His  eye  was  calm; 
only  his  mouth  showed  any  feeling  or  made  any  comment. 
It  was  a  little  supercilious  and  scornful.  Sitting  down 
by  the  table,  he  spread  the  letter  out,  and  read  it  with 
great  deliberation.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  looked 
at  it  since  he  received  it  in  Vienna  and  had  placed  it  in 
the  dispatch-box. 

"Dear  Ian,"  it  ran,  "our  year  of  probation — that  is  the  word, 
isn't  it? — is  up;  and  I  have  decided  that  our  ways  must  lie  apart. 
I  am  going  to  marry  Rudyard  Byng  next  month.  He  is  very  kind 
and  very  strong,  and  not  too  ragingly  clever.  You  know  I  should 
chafe  at  being  reminded  daily  of  my  own  stupidity  by  a  very  clever 
man.  You  and  I  have  had  so  many  good  hours  together,  there  has 
been  such  confidence  between  us,  that  no  other  friendship  can  ever 
be  the  same;  and  I  shall  always  want  to  go  to  you,  and  ask  your 
advice,  and  learn  to  be  wise.  You  will  not  turn  a  cold  shoulder  on 
me,  will  you?  I  think  you  yourself  realized  that  my  wish  to  wait 
a  year  before  giving  a  final  answer  was  proof  that  I  really  had  not 
that  in  my  heart  which  would  justify  me  in  saying  what  you  wished 
7  87 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

me  to  say.  Oh  yes,  you  knew;  and  the  last  day  when  you  bade  me 
good-bye  you  almost  said  as  much!  I  was  so  young,  so  unschooled, 
when  you  first  asked  me,  and  I  did  not  know  my  own  mind;  but  I 
know  it  now,  and  so  I  go  to  Rudyard  Byng  for  better  or  for  worse — " 

He  suddenly  stopped  reading,  sat  back  in  his  chair,  and 
laughed  sardonically. 

"'For  richer,  for  poorer •' — now  to  have  launched  out  on 
the  first  phrase,  and  to  have  jibbed  at  the  second  was  dis- 
tinctly stupid.  The  quotation  could  only  have  been  car- 
ried off  with  audacity  of  the  ripest  kind.  'For  better,  for 
worse,  for  richer,  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  till 
death  us  do  part,  amen — '  That  was  the  way  to  have  done 
it,  if  it  was  to  be  done  at  all.  Her  cleverness  forsook  her 
when  she  wrote  that  letter.  '  Our  year  of  probation ' — she 
called  it  that.  Dear,  dear,  what  a  poor  prevaricator  the 
best  prevaricator  is !  She  was  sworn  to  me,  bound  to  me, 
wanted  a  year  in  which  to  have  her  fling  before  she  settled 
down,  and  she  threw  me  over — like  that." 

He  did  not  read  the  rest  of  the  letter,  but  got  up,  went 
over  to  the  fire,  threw  it  in,  and  watched  it  burn. 

"I  ought  to  have  done  so  when  I  received  it,"  he  said, 
almost  kindly  now.  "A  thing  like  that  ought  never  to 
be  kept  a  minute.  It's  a  terrible  confession,  damning 
evidence,  a  self-made  exposure,  and  to  keep  it  is  too  brutal, 
too  hard  on  the  woman.  If  anything  had  happened  to 
me  and  it  had  been  read,  '  Not  all  the  King's  horses  nor 
all  the  King's  men  could  put  Humpty  Dumpty  together 
again.'" 

Then  he  recalled  the  brief  letter  he  had  written  her  in 
reply.  Unlike  him,  she  had  not  kept  his  answer,  when  it 
came  into  her  hands,  but,  tearing  it  up  into  fifty  frag- 
ments, had  thrown  it  into  the  waste-basket,  and  paced 
her  room  in  shame,  anger  and  humiliation.  Finally,  she 
had  taken  the  waste-basket  and  emptied  it  into  the  flames. 
She  had  watched  the  tiny  fragments  burn  in  a  fire  not 
hotter  than  that  in  her  own  eyes,  which  presently  were 
washed  by  a  flood  of  bitter  tears  and  passionate  and  un- 
83 


THREE   YEARS    LATER 

availing  protest.  For  hours  she  had  sobbed,  and  when 
she  went  out  into  the  world  the  next  day,  it  was  with  his 
every  word  ringing  in  her  ears,  as  they  had  rung  ever  since : 
the  sceptic  comment  at  every  feast,  the  ironical  laughter 
behind  every  door,  the  whispered  detraction  in  every  loud 
accent  of  praise. 

"Dear  Jasmine,"  his  letter  had  run,  "it  is  kind  of  you  to  tell  me 
of  your  intended  marriage  before  it  occurs,  for  in  these  distant  lands 
news  either  travels  slowly  or  does  not  reach  one  at  all.  I  am  for- 
tunate in  having  my  information  from  the  very  fountain  of  first 
knowledge.  You  have  seen  and  done  much  in  the  past  year;  and 
the  end  of  it  all  is  more  fitting  than  the  most  meticulous  artist  could 
desire  or  conceive.  You  will  adorn  the  new  sphere  into  which  you 
enter.  You  are  of  those  who  do  not  need  training  or  experience: 
you  are  a  genius,  whose  chief  characteristic  is  adaptability.  Some 
people,  to  whom  nature  and  Providence  have  not  been  generous, 
live  up  to  things;  to  you  it  is  given  to  live  down  to  them;  and  no 
one  can  do  it  so  well.  We  have  had  good  times  together — happy 
conversations  and  some  cheerful  and  entertaining  dreams  and  pur- 
poses. We  have  made  the  most  of  opportunity,  each  in  his  and  her 
own  way.  But,  my  dear  Jasmine,  don't  ever  think  that  you  will 
need  to  come  to  me  for  advice  and  to  learn  to  be  wise.  I  know  of 
no  one  from  whom  I  could  learn,  from  whom  I  have  learned,  so 
much.  I  am  deeply  your  debtor  for  revelations  which  never  could 
have  come  to  me  without  your  help.  There  is  a  wonderful  future 
before  you,  whose  variety  let  Time,  not  me,  attempt  to  reveal.  I 
shall  watch  your  going  on" — (he  did  not  say  goings  on) — "your 
Alpine  course,  with  clear  memories  of  things  and  hours  dearer  to 
me  than  all  the  world,  and  with  which  I  would  not  have  parted  for 
the  mines  of  the  Rand.  I  lose  them  now  for  nothing — and  less  than 
nothing.  I  shall  be  abroad  for  some  years,  and,  meanwhile,  a  new 
planet  will  swim  into  the  universe  of  matrimony.  I  shall  see  the 
light  shining,  but  its  heavenly  orbit  will  not  be  within  my  calcula- 
tions. Other  astronomers  will  watch,  and  some  no  doubt  will  pray, 
and  I  shall  read  in  the  annals  the  bright  story  of  the  flower  that  was 
turned  into  a  star! 

"Always  yours  sincerely, 

"!AN  STAFFORD." 

From  the  filmy  ashes  of  her  letter  to  him  Stafford  now 
turned  away  to  his  writing-table.     There  he  sat  for  a  while 
and  answered  several  notes,  among  them  one  to  Alice 
89 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Mayhew,  now  the  Countess  of  Tynemouth,  whose  red 
parasol  still  hung  above  the  mantel-piece,  a  relic  of  the 
Zambesi — and  of  other  things. 

Periodically  Lady  Tynemouth's  letters  had  come  to  him 
while  he  was  abroad,  and  from  her,  in  much  detail,  he  had 
been  informed  of  the  rise  of  Mrs.  Byng,  of  her  great 
future,  her  "delicious"  toilettes,  her  great  entertainments 
for  charity,  her  successful  attempts  to  gather  round  her 
the  great  figures  in  the  political  and  diplomatic  world; 
andlier  partial  rejection  of  Byng's  old  mining  and  finan- 
cial confreres  and  their  belongings.  It  had  all  culmi- 
nated in  a  visit  of  royalty  to  their  place  in  Suffolk, 
from  which  she  had  emerged  radiantly  and  delicately 
aggressive,  and  sweeping  a  wider  circle  with  her  social 
scythe. 

Ian  had  read  it  all  unperturbed.  It  was  just  what  he 
knew  she  could  and  would  do;  and  he  foresaw  for  Byng, 
if  he  wanted  it,  a  peerage  in  the  not  distant  future.  Alice 
Tynemouth  was  no  gossip,  and  she  was  not  malicious.. 
She  had  a  good,  if  wayward,  heart,  was  full  of  sentiment, 
and  was  a  constant  and  helpful  friend.  He,  therefore, 
accepted  her  invitation  now  to  spend  the  next  week-end 
with  her  and  her  husband;  and  then,  with  letters  to  two 
young  nephews  in  his  pocket,  he  prepared  to  sally  forth 
to  buy  them  presents,  and  to  get  some  sweets  for  the  chil- 
dren of  a  poor  invalid  cousin  to  whom  for  years  he  had 
been  a  generous  friend.  For  children  he  had  a  profound 
love,  and  if  he  had  married,  he  would  not  have  been  con- 
tent with  a  childless  home — with  a  childless  home  like 
that  of  Rudyard  Byng.  That  news  also  had  come  to 
him  from  Alice  Tynemouth,  who  honestly  lamented  that 
Jasmine  Byng  had  no  "balance-wheel,"  which  was  the 
safety  and  the  anchor  of  women  "like  her  and  me,"  Lady 
Tynemouth's  letter  had  said. 

Three  millions  then — and  how  much  more  now? — and 
big  houses,  and  no  children.     It  was  an  empty  business, 
or  so  it  seemed  to  himj  who  had  come  of  a  large  and  agree- 
90 


THREE    YEARS    LATER 

ably  quarrelsome  and  clever  family,  with  whom  life  had 
been  checkered  but  never  dull. 

He  took  up  his  hat  and  stick,  and  went  towards  the 
door.  His  eyes  caught  Al'mah's  photograph  as  he  passed. 

"It  was  all  done  that  night  at  the  opera,"  he  said. 
"Jasmine  made  up  her  mind  then  to  marry  him,  ...  I 
wonder  what  the  end  will  be.  .  .  .  Sad  little,  bad  little 
girl.  .  .  .  The  mess  of  pottage  at  the  last?  Quien  sabe!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

*'HE   SHALL  NOT  TREAT   ME   SO" 

THE  air  of  the  late  September  morning  smote  Staf- 
ford's cheeks  pleasantly,  and  his  spirits  rose  as  he 
walked  up  St.  James's  Street.  His  step  quickened  im- 
perceptibly to  himself,  and  he  nodded  to  or  shook  hands 
with  half  a  dozen  people  before  he  reached  Piccadilly. 
Here  he  completed  the  purchases  for  his  school-boy 
nephews,  and  then  he  went  to  a  sweet-shop  in  Regent 
Street -to  get  chocolates  for  his  young  relatives.  As  he  en- 
tered the  place  he  was  suddenly  brought  to  a  standstill, 
for  not  two  dozen  yards  away  at  a  counter  was  Jasmine 
Byng. 

She  did  not  see  him  enter,  and  he  had  time  to  note  what 
matrimony,  and  the  three  years  and  the  three  million 
pounds,  had  done  to  her.  She  was  radiant  and  exquisite, 
a  little  paler,  a  little  more  complete,  but  increasingly 
graceful  and  perfectly  appointed.  Her  dress  was  of  dark 
green,  of  a  most  delicate  shade,  and  with  the  clinging 
softness  and  texture  of  velvet.  She  wore  a  jacket  of  the 
same  material,  and  a  single  brilliant  ornament  at  her 
throat  relieved  the  simplicity.  In  the  hat,  too,  one  big 
solitary  emerald  shone  against  the  lighter  green. 

She  was  talking  now  with  animation  and  amusement 
to  the  shop-girl  who  was  supplying  her  with  sweets,  and 
every  attendant  was  watching  her  with  interest  and 
pleasure.  Stafford  reflected  that  this  was  always  her 
way:  wherever  she  went  she  attracted  attention,  drew 
interest,  magnetized  the  onlooker.  Nothing  had  changed 
in  her,  nothing  of  charm  and  beauty  and  eloquence,—- 
92 


"HE    SHALL    NOT    TREAT    ME    SO" 

how  eloquent  she  had  always  been! — of  esprit,  had  gone 
from  her;  nothing.  Presently  she  turned  her  face  full 
toward  him,  still  not  seeing  him,  half  hidden  as  he  was 
behind  some  piled-up  tables  in  the  centre  of  the  shop. 

Nothing  changed?  Yes,  instantly  he  was  aware  of  a 
change,  in  the  eyes,  at  the  mouth.  An  elusive,  vague, 
distant  kind  of  disturbance — he  could  not  say  trouble — 
had  stolen  into  her  eyes,  had  taken  possession  of  the  cor- 
ners of  the  mouth;  and  he  was  conscious  of  something 
exotic,  self-indulgent,  and  "emancipated."  She  had  al- 
ways been  self-indulgent  and  selfish,  and,  in  a  wilful, 
innocent  way,  emancipated,  in  the  old  days;  but  here 
was  a  different,  a  fuller,  a  more  daring  expression  of  these 
qualities.  .  .  .  Ah,  he  had  it  now !  That  elusive  something 
was  a  lurking  recklessness,  which,  perhaps,  was  not  bold 
enough  yet  to  leap  into  full  exercise,  or  even  to  recognize 
itself. 

So  this  was  she  to  whom  he  had  given  the  best  of  which 
he  had  been  capable — not  a  very  noble  or  priceless  best, 
he  was  willing  to  acknowledge,  but  a  kind  of  guarantee  of 
the  future,  the  nucleus  of  fuller  things.  As  he  looked  at 
her  now  his  heart  did  not  beat  faster,  his  pulses  did  not 
quicken,  his  eye  did  not  soften,  he  did  not  even  wish  him- 
self away.  Love  was  as  dead  as  last  year's  leaves — so 
dead  that  no  spirit  of  resentment,  or  humiliation,  or  pain 
of  heart  was  in  his  breast  at  this  sight  of  her  again.  On 
the  contrary,  he  was  conscious  of  a  perfect  mastery  of 
himself,  of  being  easily  superior  to  the  situation. 

Love  was  dead;  youth  was  dead;  the  desire  that  beats 
in  the  veins  of  the  young  was  dead;  his  disillusion  and 
disappointment  and  contempt  for  one  woman  had  not 
driven  him,  as  it  so  often  does,  to  other  women — to  that 
wild  waste  which  leaves  behind  it  a  barren  and  ill-natured 
soil  exhausted  of  its  power,  of  its  generous  and  native 
health.  There  was  a  strange  apathy  in  his  senses,  an 
emotional  stillness,  as  it  were,  the  atrophy  of  all  the 
passionate  elements  of  his  nature.  But  because  of  this 
93 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

he  was  the  better  poised,  the  more  evenly  balanced,  the 
more  perceptive.  His  eyes  were  not  blurred  or  dimmed 
by  any  stress  of  emotion,  his  mind  worked  in  a  cool  quiet, 
and  his  forward  tread  had  leisurely  decision  and  grace. 
He  had  sunk  one  part  of  himself  far  below  the  level  of 
activity  or  sensation,  while  new  resolves,  new  powers  of 
mind,  new  designs  were  set  in  motion  to  make  his  career 
a  real  and  striking  success.  He  had  the  most  friendly 
ear  and  the  full  confidence  of  the  Prime  Minister,  who 
was  also  Foreign  Secretary — he  had  got  that  far;  and 
now,  if  one  of  his  great  international  schemes  could  but 
be  completed,  an  ambassadorship  would  be  his  reward, 
and  one  of  first-class  importance.  The  three  years  had 
done  much  for  him  in  a  worldly  way,  wonderfully  much. 

As  he  looked  at  the  woman  who  had  shaken  his  life  to 
the  centre — not  by  her  rejection  of  him,  but  by  the  fashion 
of  it,  the  utter  selfishness  and  cold-blooded  calculation  of 
it,  he  knew  that  love's  fires  were  out,  and  that  he  could 
meet  her  without  the  agitation  of  a  single  nerve.  He  de- 
spised her,  but  he  could  make  allowance  for  her.  He  knew 
the  strain  that  was  in  her,  got  from  her  brilliant  and 
rather  plangent  grandfather.  He  knew  the  temptation 
of  a  vast  fortune,  the  power  that  it  would  bring — and  the 
notoriety,  too,  again  an  inheritance  from  her  grandfather. 
He  was  not  without  magnanimity,  and  he  could  the  more 
easily  exercise  it  because  his  pulses  of  emotion  were  still. 

She  was  by  nature  the  most  brilliantly  endowed  woman 
he  had  ever  met,  the  most  naturally  perceptive  and  artis- 
tic, albeit  there  was  a  touch  of  gorgeousness  to  the  in- 
herent artistry  which  time,  training  and  experience  would 
have  chastened.  Would  have  chastened?  Was  it  not, 
then,  chastened?  Looking  at  her  now,  he  knew  that  it 
was  not.  It  was  still  there,  he  felt ;  but  how  much  else 
was  also  there — of  charm,  of  elusiveness,  of  wit,  of  men- 
tal adroitness,  of  joyous  eagerness  to  discover  a  new 
thought  or  a  new  thing!  She  was  a  creature  of  rare 
splendour,  variety  and  vanity. 
94 


"HE    SHALL   NOT   TREAT    ME    SO" 

Why  should  he  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  her  society? 
His  intellectual  side  would  always  be  stimulated  by  her, 
she  would  always  "incite  him  to  mental  riot,"  as  she  had 
often  said.  Time  had  flown,  love  had  flown,  and  passion 
was  dead;  but  friendship  stayed.  Yes,  friendship  stayed 
— in  spite  of  all.  Her  conduct  had  made  him  blush  for 
her,  had  covered  him  with  shame,  but  she  was  a  woman, 
and  therefore  weak — he  had  come  to  that  now.  She  was 
on  a  lower  plateau  of  honour,  and  therefore  she  must  be — 
not  forgiven — that  was  too  banal ;  but  she  must  be  accepted 
as  she  was.  And,  after  all,  there  could  be  no  more  de- 
ception; for  opportunity  and  occasion  no  longer  existed. 
He  would  go  and  speak  to  her  now. 

At  that  moment  he  was  aware  that  she  had  caught 
sight  of  him,  and  that  she  was  startled.  She  had  not 
known  of  his  return  to  England,  and  she  was  suddenly 
overwhelmed  by  confusion.  The  words  of  the  letter  he 
had  written  her  when, she  had  thrown  him  over  rushed 
through  her  brain  now,  and  hurt  her  as  much  as  they  did 
the  first  day  they  had  been  received.  She  became  a  little 
pale,  and  turned  as  though  to  find  some  other  egress 
from  the  shop.  There  being  none,  there  was  but  one 
course,  and  that  was  to  go  out  as  though  she  had  not 
seen  him.  He  had  not  even  been  moved  at  all  at  seeing 
her;  but  with  her  it  was  different.  She  was  disturbed — 
in  her  vanity?  In  her  peace?  In  her  pride?  In  her 
senses?  In  her  heart?  In  any,  or  each,  or  all?  But  she 
was  disturbed:  her  equilibrium  was  shaken.  He  had 
scorched  her  soul  by  that  letter  to  her,  so  gently  cold,  so 
incisive,  so  subtly  cruel,  so  deadly  in  its  irony,  so  final — 
so  final. 

She  was  ashamed,  and  no  one  else  in  the  world  but  Ian 
Stafford  could  so  have  shamed  her.  Power  had  been 
given  to  her,  the  power  of  great  riches — the  three  millions 
had  been  really  four  —  and  everything  and  everybody, 
almost,  was  deferential  towards  her.  Had  it  brought  her 
happiness,  or  content,  or  joy?  It  had  brought  her  excite- 
95 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

ment — much  of  that — and  elation,  and  opportunity  to  do 
a  thousand  things,  and  to  fatigue  herself  in  a  thousand 
ways;  but  had  it  brought  happiness? 

If  it  had,  the  face  of  this  man  who  was  once  so  much 
to  her,  and  whom  she  had  flung  into  outer  darkness,  was 
sufficient  to  cast  a  cloud  over  it.  She  felt  herself  grow 
suddenly  weak,  but  she  determined  to  go  out  of  the  place 
without  appearing  to  see  him. 

He  was  conscious  of  it  all,  saw  it  out  of  a  corner  of  his 
eye,  and  as  she  started  forward,  he  turned,  deliberately 
walked  towards  her,  and,  with  a  cheerful  smile,  held  out 
his  hand. 

"Now,  what  good  fortune!"  he  said,  spiritedly.  "Life 
plays  no  tricks,  practises  no  deception  this  time.  In  a 
book  she'd  have  made  us  meet  on  a  grand  staircase  or  at 
a  court  ball." 

As  he  said  this,  he  shook  her  hand  warmly,  and  again 
and  again,  as  would  be  fitting  with  old  friends.  He  had 
determined  to  be  master  of  the  situation,  and  to  turn  the 
moment  to  the  credit  of  his  account — not  hers;  and  it 
was  easy  to  do  it,  for  love  was  dead,  and  the  memory  of 
love  atrophied. 

Colour  came  back  to  her  face.  Confusion  was  dispelled, 
a  quick  and  grateful  animation  took  possession  of  her,  to 
be  replaced  an  instant  after  by  the  disconcerting  reflection 
that  there  was  in  his  face  or  manner  not  the  faintest  sign 
of  emotion  or  embarrassment.  From  his  attitude  they 
might  have  been  good  friends  who  had  not  met  for  some 
time;  nothing  more. 

"  Yes,  what  a  place  to  meet!"  she  said.  "  It  really  ought 
to  have  been  at  a  green-grocer's,  and  the  apotheosis  of  the 
commonplace  would  have  been  celebrated.  But  when 
did  you  return?  How  long  do  you  remain  in  England?" 

Ah,  the  sense  of  relief  to  feel  that  he  was  not  reproach- 
ing her  for  anything,  not  impeaching  her  by  an  injured 
tone  and  manner,  which  so  many  other  men  had  assumed 
with  infinitely  less  right  or  cause  than  he! 
96 


"HE    SHALL    NOT   TREAT    ME    SO" 

"I  came  back  thirty-six  hours  ago,  and  I  stay  at  the 
will  of  the  master-mind,"  he  answered. 

The  old  whimsical  look  came  into  her  face,  the  old  sud- 
den flash  which  always  lighted  her  eyes  when  a  daring 
phrase  was  born  in  her  mind,  and  she  instantly  retorted: 

"The  master-mind — how  self-centred  you  are!" 

Whatever  had  happened,  certainly  the  old  touch  of 
intellectual  diablerie  was  still  hers,  and  he  laughed  good- 
humoredly.  Yes,  she  might  be  this  or  that,  she  might 
be  false  or  true,  she  might  be  one  who  had  sold  herself 
for  mammon,  and  had  not  paid  tribute  to  the  one  great 
natural  principle  of  being,  to  give  life  to  the  world,  man 
and  woman  perpetuating  man  and  woman;  but  she  was 
stimulating  and  delightful  without  effort. 

"And  what  are  you  doing  these  days?"  he  asked.  "One 
never  hears  of  you  now." 

This  was  cruel,  but  she  knew  that  he  was  "inciting  her 
to  riot,"  and  she  replied:  "That's  because  you  are  so 
secluded  —  in  your  kindergarten  for  misfit  statesmen. 
Abandon  knowledge,  all  ye  who  enter  there!" 

It  was  the  old  flint  and  steel,  but  the  sparks  were  not 
bright  enough  to  light  the  tinder  of  emotion.  She  knew 
it,  for  he  was  cool  and  buoyant  and  really  unconcerned, 
and  she  was  feverish — and  determined. 

"You  still  make  life  worth  living,"  he  answered,  gaily. 

"It  is  not  an  occupation  I  would  choose,"  she  replied. 
"It  is  sure  to  make  one  a  host  of  enemies." 

"So  many  of  us  make  our  careers  by  accident,"  he 
rejoined. 

"Certainly  I  made  mine  not  by  design,"  she  replied 
instantly;  and  there  was  an  undercurrent  of  meaning  in 
it  which  he  was  not  slow  to  notice ;  but  he  disregarded  her 
first  attempt  to  justify,  however  vaguely,  her  murderous 
treatment  of  him. 

"But  your  career  is  not  yet  begun,"  he  remarked. 

Her  eyes  flashed — was  it  anger,  or  pique,  or  hurt,  or 
merely  the  fire  of  intellectual  combat? 
97 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"I  am  married,"  she  said,  defiantly,  in  direct  retort. 

"That  is  not  a  career — it  is  casual  exploration  in  a 
dark  continent,"  he  rejoined. 

"  Come  and  say  that  to  my  husband,"  she  replied,  bold- 
ly. Suddenly  a  thought  lighted  her  eyes.  "Are  you  by 
any  chance  free  to-morrow  night  to  dine  with  us — quite, 
quite  en  famille?  Rudyard  will  be  glad  to  see  you — and 
hear  you,"  she  added,  teasingly. 

He  was  amused.  He  felt  how  much  he  had  really 
piqued  her  and  provoked  her  by  showing  her  so  plainly 
that  she  had  lost  every  vestige  of  the  ancient  power  over 
him;  and  he  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  spend  an 
evening  where  she  sparkled. 

"I  am  free,  and  will  come  with  pleasure,"  he  replied. 

"That  is  delightful,"  she  rejoined,  "and  please  bring 
a  box  of  bans  mots  with  you.  But  you  will  come,  then — ?" 
She  was  going  to  add,  "Ian,"  but  she  paused. 

"Yes,  I'll  come — Jasmine,"  he  answered,  coolly,  having 
read  her  hesitation  aright. 

She  flushed,  was  embarrassed  and  piqued,  but  with  a 
smile  and  a  nod  she  left  him. 

In  her  carriage,  however,  her  breath  came  quick  and 
fast,  her  tiny  hand  clenched,  her  face  flushed,  and  there 
was  a  devastating  fire  in  her  eyes. 

"  He  shall  not  treat  me  so.  He  shall  show  some  feeling. 
He  shall — he  shall — he  shall!"  she  gasped,  angrily. 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE   APPIAN   WAY 


to  Cairo  be  damned!" 

The  words  were  almost  spat  out.  The  man  to 
whom  they  were  addressed  slowly  drew  himself  up  from 
a  half  -recumbent  position  in  his  desk-chair,  from  which 
he  had  been  dreamily  talking  into  the  ceiling,  as  it  were, 
while  his  visitor  leaned  against  a  row  of  bookshelves  and 
beat  the  floor  impatiently  with  his  foot. 

At  the  rude  exclamation,  Byng  straightened  himself, 
and  looked  fixedly  at  his  visitor.  He  had  been  dreaming 
out  loud  again  the  dream  which  Rhodes  had  chanted  in 
the  ears  of  all  those  who  shared  with  him  the  pioneer 
enterprises  of  South  Africa.  The  outburst  which  had 
broken  in  on  his  monologue  was  so  unexpected  that  for 
a  moment  he  could  scarcely  realize  the  situation.  It  was 
not  often,  in  these  strenuous  and  perilous  days  —  and  for 
himself  less  often  than  ever  before,  so  had  London  and 
London  life  worked  upon  him  —  that  he,  or  those  who 
shared  with  him  the  vast  financial  responsibilities  of  the 
Rand,  indulged  in  dreams  or  prophecies;  and  he  re- 
sented the  contemptuous  phrase  just  uttered,  and  the 
tone  of  the  speaker  even  more. 

Byng's  blank  amazement  served  only  to  incense  his 
visitor  further.  "Yes,  be  damned  to  it,  Byng!"  he  con- 
tinued. "  I'm  sick  of  the  British  Empire  and  the  All  Red, 
and  the  'immense  future.'  What  I  want  is  the  present. 
It's  about  big  enough  for  you  and  me  and  the  rest  of  us. 
I  want  to  hold  our  own  in  Johannesburg.  I  want  to  pull 
thirty-five  millions  a  year  out  of  the  eighty  miles  of  reef, 
99 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

and  get  enough  native  labour  to  do  it.  I  want  to  run 
the  Rand  like  a  business  concern,  with  Kruger  gone  to 
Holland;  and  Leyds  gone  to  blazes.  That's  what  I 
want  to  see,  Mr.  Invincible  Rudyard  Byng." 

The  reply  to  this  tirade  was  deliberate  and  murder- 
ously bitter.  "That's  what  you  want  to  see,  is  it,  Mr. 
Blasphemous  Barry  Whalen?  Well,  you  can  want  it 
with  a  little  less  blither  and  a  little  more  manners." 

A  hard  and  ugly  look  was  now  come  into  the  big  clean- 
shaven face  which  had  become  sleeker  with  good  living, 
and  yet  had  indefinably  coarsened  in  the  three  years  gone 
since  the  Jameson  raid;  and  a  gloomy  anger  looked  out 
of  the  deep-blue  eyes  as  he  slowly  went  on: 

"It  doesn't  matter  what  you  want — not  a  great  deal, 
if  the  others  agree  generally  on  what  ought  to  be  done; 
and  I  don't  know  that  it  matters  much  in  any  case. 
What  have  you  come  to  see  me  about?" 

"I  know  I'm  not  welcome  here,  Byng.  It  isn't  the 
same  as  it  used  to  be.  It  isn't — " 

Byng  jerked  quickly  to  his  feet  and  lunged  forward  as 
though  he  would  do  his  visitor  violence;  but  he  got  hold 
of  himself  in  time,  and,  with  a  sudden  and  whimsical  toss 
of  the  head,  characteristic  of  him,  he  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"Well,  I've  been  stung  by  a  good  many  kinds  of  flies 
in  my  time,  and  I  oughtn't  to  mind,  I  suppose,"  he 
growled.  .  .  .  "Oh,  well,  there,"  he  broke  off;  "you  say 
you're  not  welcome  here?  If  you  really  feel  that,  you'd 
better  try  to  see  me  at  my  chambers — or  at  the  office  in 
London  Wall.  It  can't  be  pleasant  inhaling  air  that  chills 
or  stifles  you.  You  take  my  advice,  Barry,  and  save 
yourself  annoyance.  But  let  me  say  in  passing  that  you 
are  as  welcome  here  as  anywhere,  neither  more  nor  less. 
You  are  as  welcome  as  you  were  in  the  days  when  we 
trekked  from  the  Vaal  to  Pietersburg  and  on  into  Bechuana- 
land,  and  both  slept  in  the  cape-wagon  under  one  blanket. 
I  don't  think  any  more  of  you  than  I  did  then,  and  I 
don't  think  any  less;  and  I  don't  want  to  see  you  any 


THE    APPIAN   WAY 

more  or  any  fewer.  But,  Barry" — his  voice  changed, 
grew  warmer,  kinder — "circumstances  are  circumstances. 
The  daily  lives  of  all  of  us  are  shaped  differently — yours 
as  well  as  mine — here  in  this  pudding-faced  civilization 
and  in  the  iron  conventions  of  London  town;  and  we  must 
adapt  ourselves  accordingly.  We  used  to  flop  down  on 
our  Louis  Quinze  furniture  on  the  Vaal  with  our  muddy 
boots  on — in  our  front  drawing-room.  We  don't  do  it  in 
Thamesfontein,  my  noble  buccaneer — not  even  in  Barry 
Whalen's  mansion  in  Ladbroke  Square,  where  Barry 
Whalen,  Esq.,  puts  his  silk  hat  on  the  hall  table,  and — 
and,  'If  you  please,  sir,  your  bath  is  ready'!  .  .  .  Don't 
be  an  idiot-child,  Barry,  and  don't  spoil  my  best  sentences 
when  I  let  myself  go.  I  don't  do  it  often  these  days — 
not  since  Jameson  spilt  the  milk  and  the  can  went 
trundling  down  the  area.  It's  little  time  we  get  for  dream- 
ing, these  sodden  days,  but  it's  only  dreams  that  do  the 
world's  work  and  our  own  work  in  the  end.  It's  dreams 
that  do  it,  Barry;  it's  dreams  that  drive  us  on,  that  make 
us  see  beyond  the  present  and  the  stupefying,  deadening 
grind  of  the  day.  So  it  '11  be  Cape  to  Cairo  in  good  time, 
dear  lad,  and  no  damnation,  if  y^cm  please.  .  .  .  Why, 
what's  got  into  you?  And  again,  what  have  you  come  to 
see  me  about,  anyhow?  You  knew  we  were  to  meet  at 
dinner  at  Wallstein's  to-night.  Is  there  anything  that's 
skulking  at  our  heels  to  hurt  us?" 

The  scowl  on  Barry  Whalen's  dissipated  face  cleared  a 
little.  He  came  over,  rested  both  hands  on  the  table  and 
leaned  forward  as  he  spoke,  Byng  resuming  his  seat 
meanwhile. 

Barry's  voice  was  a  little  thick  with  excitement,  but 
he  weighed  his  words  too.  "Byng,  I  wanted  you  to  know 
beforehand  what  Fleming  intends  to  bring  up  to-night 
— a  nice  kind  of  reunion,  isn't  it,  with  war  ahead  as  sure 
as  guns,  and  the  danger  of  everything  going  to  smash, 
in  spite  of  Milner  and  Jo?" 

A  set  look  came  into  Byng's  face.     He  caught  the  lapels 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

of  his  big,  loose,  double-breasted  jacket,  and  spread  his 
feet  a  little,  till  he  looked  as  though  squaring  himself 
to  resist  attack. 

"Go  on  with  your  story,"  he  interposed.  "What  is 
Fleming  going  to  say — or  bring  up,  you  call  it?" 

"He's  going  to  say  that  some  one  is  betraying  us — all 
we  do  that's  of  any  importance  and  most  we  say  that 
counts — to  Kruger  and  Leyds.  He's  going  to  say  that 
the  traitor  is  some  one  inside  our  circle." 

Byng  started,  and  his  hands  clutched  at  the  chair- 
back,  then  he  became  quiet  and  watchful.  "And  whom 
does  Fleming — or  you — suspect?"  he  asked,  with  lowering 
eyelids  and  a  slumbering  malice  in  his  eyes. 

Barry  straightened  himself  and  looked  Byng  rather 
hesitatingly  in  the  face;  then  he  said,  slowly: 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  Fleming's  suspicions.  Mine, 
though,  are  at  least  three  years  old,  and  you  know  them. 

"Krool?" 

"Krool — for  sure." 

"What  would  be  Krool's  object  in  betraying  us,  even 
if  he  knew  all  we  say  and  do?" 

"Blood  is  thicker  than  water,  Byng,  and  double  pay 
to  a  poor  man  is  a  consideration." 

"Krool  would  do  nothing  that  injured  me,  Barry.  I 
know  men.  What  sort  of  thing  has  been  given  away  to 
Brother  Boer?" 

Barry  took  from  his  pocket  a  paper  and  passed  it  over. 
Byng  scanned  it  very  carefully  and  slowly,  and  his  face 
darkened  as  he  read;  for  there  were  certain  things  set 
down  of  which  only  he  and  Wallstein  and  one  or  two 
others  knew;  which  only  he  and  one  high  in  authority 
in  England  knew,  besides  Wallstein.  His  face  slowly 
reddened  with  anger.  London  life,  and  its  excitements 
multiplied  by  his  wife  and  not  avoided  by  himself,  had 
worn  on  him,  had  affected  his  once  sunny  and  even  tem- 
per, had  given  him  greater  bulk,  with  a  touch  of  flabbiness 
under  the  chin  and  at  the  neck,  and  had  slackened  the 

102 


THE    APPIAN    WAY 

firmness  of  the  muscles.  Presently  he  got  up,  went  over 
to  a  table,  and  helped  himself  to  brandy  and  soda,  mo- 
tioning to  Barry  to  do  the  same.  There  were  two  or 
three  minutes'  silence,  and  then  he  said: 

"There's  something  wrong,  certainly,  but  it  isn't  Krool. 
No,  it  isn't  Krool." 

"Nevertheless,  if  you're  wise  you'll  ship  him  back  be- 
yond the  Vaal,  my  friend." 

"It  isn't  Krool.  I'll  stake  my  life  on  that.  He's  as 
true  to  me  as  I  am  to  myself;  and,  anyhow,  there  are 
things  in  this  Krool  couldn't  know."  He  tossed  the  paper 
into  the  fire  and  watched  it  burn. 

He  had  talked  over  many,  if  not  all,  of  these  things  with 
Jasmine,  and  with  no  one  else;  but  Jasmine  would  not 
gossip.  He  had  never  known  her  to  do  so.  Indeed,  she 
had  counselled  extreme  caution  so  often  to  himself  that 
she  would,  in  any  case,  be  innocent  of  having  babbled. 
But  certainly  there  had  been  leakage — there  had  been 
leakage  regarding  most  critical  affairs.  They  were  mo- 
mentous enough  to  cause  him  to  say  reflectively  now,  as 
he  watched  the  paper  bum: 

"You  might  as  well  carry  dynamite  in  your  pocket  as 
that." 

"You  don't  mind  my  coming  to  see  you?"  Barry  asked, 
in  an  anxious  tone. 

He  could  not  afford  to  antagonize  Byng;  in  any  case, 
his  heart  was  against  doing  so;  though,  like  an  Irish- 
man, he  had  risked  everything  by  his  maladroit  and  ill- 
mannered  attack  a  little  while  ago. 

"I  wanted  to  warn  you,  so's  you  could  be  ready  when 
Fleming  jumped  in,"  Barry  continued. 

"No;  I'm  much  obliged,  Barry,"  was  Byng's  reply,  in 
a  voice  where  trouble  was  well  marked,  however.  "Wait 
a  minute,"  he  continued,  as  his  visitor  prepared  to  leave. 
"Go  into  the  other  room" — he  pointed.  "Glue  your  ear 
to  the  door  first,  then  to  the  wall,  and  tell  me  if  you  can 
hear  anything — any  word  I  say." 
8  103 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Barry  did  as  he  was  bidden.  Presently  Byng  spoke 
in  a  tone  rather  louder  than  in  ordinary  conversation  to 
an  imaginary  interlocutor  for  some  minutes.  Then  Barry 
Whalen  came  back  into  the  room. 

"Well?"  Byng  asked.     "Heard  anything?" 

"Not  a  word — scarcely  a  murmur." 

"Quite  so.  The  walls  are  thick,  and  those  big  mahog- 
any doors  fit  like  a  glove.  Nothing  could  leak  through. 
Let's  try  the  other  door,  leading  into  the  hall."  They 
went  over  to  it.  "You  see,  here's  an  inside  baize-door  as 
well.  There's  not  room  for  a  person  to  stand  between  the 
two.  I'll  go  out  now,  and  you  stay.  Talk  fairly  loud." 

The  test  produced  the  same  result. 

"Maybe  I  talk  in  my  sleep,"  remarked  Byng,  with  a 
troubled,  ironical  laugh. 

Suddenly  there  shot  into  Barry  Whalen's  mind  a 
thought  which  ,startled  him,  which  brought  the  colour  to 
his  face  with  a  rush.  For  years  he  had  suspected  Krool, 
had  considered  him  a  danger.  For  years  he  had  regarded 
Byng  as  culpable,  for  keeping  as  his  servant  one  whom 
the  Partners  all  believed  to  be  a  spy;  but  now  another, 
a  terrible  thought  came  to  him,  too  terrible  to  put  into 
words — even  in  his  own  mind. 

There  were  two  other  people  besides  Krool  who  were 
very  close  to  Byng.  There  was  Mrs.  Byng  for  one;  there 
was  also  Adrian  Fellowes,  who  had  been  for  a  long  time  a 
kind  of  handy-man  of  the  great  house,  doing  the  hundred 
things  which  only  a  private  secretary,  who  was  also  a 
kind  of  master-of-ceremonies  and  lord-in-waiting,  as  it 
were,  could  do.  Yes,  there  was  Adrian  Fellowes,  the 
private  secretary;  and  there  was  Mrs.  Byng,  who  knew 
so  much  of  what  her  husband  knew!  And  the  private 
secretary  and  the  wife  necessarily  saw  much  of  each  other. 
What  came  to  Barry's  mind  now  stunned  him,  and  he 
mumbled  out  some  words  of  good-bye  with  an  almost 
hang-dog  look  to  his  face;  for  he  had  a  chivalrous  heart 
and  mind,  and  he  was  not  prone  to  be  malicious. 
104 


THE    APPIAN   WAY 

"We'll  meet  at  eight,  then?"  said  Byng,  taking  out  his 
watch.  "It's  a  quarter  past  seven  now.  Don't  fuss, 
Barry.  We'll  nose  out  the  spy,  whoever  he  is,  or  wherever 
to  be  found.  But  we  won't  find  him  here,  I  think — not 
here,  my  friend." 

Suddenly  Barry  Whalen  turned  at  the  door.  "Oh, 
let's  go  back  to  the  veld  and  the  Rand!"  he  burst  out, 
passionately.  "This  is  no  place  for  us,  Byng — not  for 
either  of  us.  You  are  getting  flabby,  and  I'm  spoiling 
my  temper  and  my  manners.  Let's  get  out  of  this  in- 
fernal jack-pot.  Let's  go  where  we'll  be  in  the  thick  of 
the  broiling  when  it  comes.  You've  got  a  political  head, 
and  you've  done  more  than  any  one  else  could  do  to  put 
things  right  and  keep  them  right;  but  it's  no  good. 
Nothing  '11  be  got  except  where  the  red  runs.  And  the 
red  will  run,  in  spite  of  all  Jo  or  Milner  or  you  can  do. 
And  when  it  comes,  you  and  I  will  be  sick  if  we're  not 
there — yes,  even  you  with  your  millions,  Byng." 

With  moist  eyes  Byng  grasped  the  hand  of  the  rough- 
hewn  comrade  of  the  veld,  and  shook  it  warmly. 

"England  has  got  on  your  nerves,  Barry,"  he  said, 
gently.  "But  we're  all  right  in  London.  The  key-board 
of  the  big  instrument  is  here." 

"But  the  organ  is  out  there,  Byng,  and  it's  the  organ 
that  makes  the  music,  not  the  keys.  We're  all  going  to 
pieces  here,  every  one  of  us.  I  see  it.  Hen  Gott,  I  see  it 
plain  enough!  We're  in  the  wrong  shop.  We're  not  buy- 
ing or  selling;  we're  being  sold.  Baas — big  Baas,  let's 
go  where  there's  room  to  sling  a  stone;  where  we  can  see 
what's  going  on  round  us;  where  there's  the  long  sight 
and  the  strong  sight;  where  you  can  sell  or  get  sold  in  the 
open,  not  in  the  alleyways;  where  you  can  have  a  run 
for  your  money." 

Byng  smiled  benevolently.  Yet  something  was  stir- 
ring his  senses  strangely.  The  smell  of  the  karoo  was  in 
his  nostrils.  "You're  not  ending  up  as  you  began, 
Barry,"  he  replied.  "You  started  off  like  an  Israelite 
105 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

on  the  make,  and  you're  winding  up  like  Moody  and 
Sankey." 

"Well,  I'm  right  now  in  the  wind-up.  I'm  no  better, 
I'm  no  worse,  than  the  rest  of  our  fellows,  but  I'm  Irish 
— I  can  see.  The  Celt  can  always  see,  even  if  he  can't 
act.  And  I  see  dark  days  coming  for  this  old  land. 
England  is  wallowing.  It's  all  guzzle  and  feed  and  finery, 
and  nobody  cares  a  copper  about  anything  that  matters — " 

"About  Cape  to  Cairo,  eh?" 

"Byng,  that  was  one  of  my  idiocies.  But  you  think 
over  what  I  say,  just  the  same.  I'm  right.  We're 
rotten  cotton  stuff  now  in  these  isles.  We've  got  fatty 
degeneration  of  the  heart,  and  in  all  the  rest  of  the  organs 
too." 

Again  Byng  shook  him  by  the  hand  warmly.  "Wsll, 
Wallstein  will  give  us  a  fat  dinner  to-night,  and  you  can 
moralize  with  lime-light  effects  after  thefoie  gras,  Barry." 

Closing  the  door  slowly  behind  his  friend,  whom  he 
had  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  dark-browed  Krool, 
Byng  turned  again  to  his  desk.  As  he  did  so  he  caught 
sight  of  his  face  in  the  mirror  over  the  mantel-piece.  A 
shadow  swept  over  it;  his  lips  tightened. 

"Barry  was  right,"  he  murmured,  scrutinizing  himself. 
"I've  degenerated.  We've  all  degenerated.  What's  the 
matter,  anyhow?  What  is  the  matter?  I've  got  every- 
thing— everything — everything. ' ' 

Hearing  the  door  open  behind  him,  he  turned  to  see 
Jasmine  in  evening  dress  smiling  at  him.  She  held  up  a 
pink  finger  in  reproof. 

"Naughty  boy,"  she  said.  "What's  this  I  hear— that 
you  have  thrown  me  over — me — to  go  and  dine  with 
the  Wallstein!  It's  nonsense!  You  can't  go.  Ian  Staf- 
ford is  coming  to  dine,  as  I  told  you." 

His  eyes  beamed  protectingly,  affectionately,  and  yet, 
somehow,  a  little  anxiously,  on  her.  "  But  I  must  go,  Jas- 
mine. It's  the  first  time  we've  all  been  together  since  the 
Raid,  and  it's  good  we  should  be  in  the  full  circle  once  again. 
106 


THE    APPIAN    WAY 

There's  work  to  do — more  than  ever  there  was.  There's 
a  storm  coming  up  on  the  veld,  a  real  jagged  lightning 
business,  and  men  will  get  hurt,  hosts  beyond  recovery. 
We  must  commune  together,  all  of  us.  If  there's  the  com- 
munion of  saints,  there's  also  the  communion  of  sinners. 
Fleming  is  back,  and  Wolff  is  back,  and  Melville  and 
Reuter  and  Hungerford  are  back,  but  only  for  a  few  days, 
and  we  all  must  meet  and  map  things  out.  I  forgot  about 
the  dinner.  As  soon  as  I  remembered  it  I  left  a  note  on 
your  dressing-table." 

With  sudden  emotion  he  drew  her  to  him,  and  buried 
his  face  in  her  soft  golden  hair.  "My  darling,  my  little 
jasmine-flower,"  he  whispered,  softly,  "I  hate  leaving 
you,  but — " 

"But  it's  impossible,  Ruddy,  my  man.  How  can  I 
send  Ian  Stafford  away?  It's  too  late  to  put  him  off." 

"There's  no  need  to  put  him  off  or  to  send  him  away — 
such  old  friends  as  you  are.  Why  shouldn't  he  dine  with 
you  a  deux?  I'm  the  only  person  that's  got  anything  to 
say  about  that." 

She  expressed  no  surprise,  she  really  felt  none.  He  had 
forgotten  that,  coming  up  from  Scotland,  he  had  told  her 
of  this  dinner  with  his  friends,  and  at  the  moment  she 
asked  Ian  Stafford  to  dine  she  had  forgotten  it  also;  but 
she  remembered  it  immediately  afterwards,  and  she  had 
said  nothing,  done  nothing. 

As  Byng  spoke,  however,  a  curious  expression  emerged 
from  the  far  depths  of  her  eyes — emerged,  and  was  in- 
stantly gone  again  to  the  obscurity  whence  it  came.  She 
had  foreseen  that  he  would  insist  on  Stafford  dining  with 
her;  but,  while  showing  no  surprise- — and  no  perplexity — 
there  was  a  touch  of  demureness  in  her  expression  as  she 
answered: 

"I  don't  want  to  seem  too  conventional,  but — " 

"There  should  be  a  little  latitude  in  all  social  rules," 
he  rejoined.     "What  nonsense!    You  are  prudish,  Jas- 
mine.   Allow  yourself  some  latitude." 
107 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"Latitude,  not  license,"  she  returned.  Having  deftly 
laid  on  him  the  reponsibility  for  this  evening's  episode, 
this  excursion  into  the  dangerous  fields  of  past  memory 
and  sentiment  and  perjured  faith,  she  closed  the  book  of 
her  own  debit  and  credit  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction. 

"Let  me  look  at  you,"  he  said,  standing  her  off  from 
him. 

Holding  her  hand,  he  turned  her  round  like  a  child  to 
be  inspected.  "Well,  you're  a  dream,"  he  added,  as  she 
released  herself  and  swept  into  a  curtsey,  coquetting  with 
her  eyes  as  she  did  so.  "You're  wonderful  in  blue — a 
flower  in  the  azure,"  he  added.  "I  seem  to  remember 
that  gown  before — years  ago — " 

She  uttered  an  exclamation  of  horror.  "  Good  gracious, 
you  wild  and  ruthless  ruffian!  A  gown — this  gown — 
years  ago!  My  bonny  boy,  do  you  think  I  wear  my 
gowns  for  years?" 

"  I  wear  my  suits  for  years.  Some  I've  had  seven  years. 
I've  got  a  frock-coat  I  bought  for  my  brother  Jim's  wed- 
ding, ten  years  ago,  and  it  looks  all  right — a  little  small 
now,  but  otherwise  'most  as  good  as  new." 

"What  a  lamb,  what  a  babe,  you  are,  Ruddy!  Like 
none  that  ever  lived.  Why,  no  woman  wears  her  gowns 
two  seasons,  and  some  of  them  rather  hate  wearing  them 
two  times." 

"  Then  what  do  they  do  with  them — after  the  two  times?" 

"Well,  for  a  while,  perhaps,  they  keep  them  to  look  at 
and  gloat  over,  if  they  like  them ;  then,  perhaps,  they  give 
them  away  to  their  poor  cousins  or  their  particular 
friends — ' 

"Their  particular  friends — ?" 

"Why,  every  woman  has  some  friends  poorer  than  her- 
self who  love  her  very  much,  and  she  is  good  to  them. 
Or  there's  the  Mart—' 

"  Wait.     What's  '  the  Mart '  ?" 

"The  place  where  ladies  can  get  rid  of  fine  clothes  at  a 
wicked  discount." 

108 


THE    APPIAN    WAY 

"And  what  becomes  of  them  then?" 

"They  are  bought  by  ladies  less  fortunate." 

"Ladies  who  wear  them?" 

"Why,  what  else  would  they  do?  Wear  them — of 
course,  dear  child." 

Byng  made  a  gesture  of  disgust.  "Well,  I  call  it  sicken- 
ing. To  me  there's  something  so  personal  and  intimate 
about  clothes.  I  think  I  could  kill  any  woman  that  I  saw 
wearing  clothes  of  yours — of  yours." 

She  laughed  mockingly.  "My  beloved,  you've  seen 
them  often  enough,  but  you  haven't  known  they  were 
mine;  that's  all." 

"I  didn't  recognize  them,  because  no  one  could  wear 
your  clothes  like  you.  It  would  be  a  caricature.  That's 
a  fact,  Jasmine." 

She  reached  up  and  swept  his  cheek  with  a  kiss.  "What 
a  darling  you  are,  little  big  man!  Yet  you  never  make 
very  definite  remarks  about  my  clothes." 

He  put  his  hands  on  his  hips  and  looked  her  up  and 
down  approvingly.  "Because  I  only  see  a  general  effect, 
but  I  always  remember  colour.  Tell  me,  have  you  ever 
sold  your  clothes  to  the  Mart,  or  whatever  the  miserable 
coffin-shop  is  called?" 

"Well,  not  directly." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'not  directly'?" 

"Well,  I  didn't  sell  them,  but  they  were  sold  for  me." 
She  hesitated,  then  went  on  hurriedly.  "Adrian  Fellowes 
knew  of  a  very  sad  case — a  girl  in  the  opera  who  had  had 
misfortune,  illness,  and  bad  luck;  and  he  suggested  it. 
He  said  he  didn't  like  to  ask  for  a  cheque,  because  we  were 
always  giving,  but  selling  my  old  wardrobe  would  be  a 
sort  of  lucky  find — that's  what  he  called  it." 

Byng  nodded,  with  a  half-frown,  however.  "That  was 
ingenious  of  Fellowes,  and  thoughtful,  too.  Now,  what 
does  a  gown  cost,  one  like  that  you  have  on?" 

"This — let  me  see.  Why,  fifty  pounds,  perhaps.  It's 
not  a  ball  gown,  of  course." 

109 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

He  laughed  mockingly.  ' '  Why, '  of  course !'  And  what 
does  a  ball  gown  cost — perhaps?"  There  was  a  cynical 
kind  of  humour  in  his  eye. 

"Anything  from  fifty  to  a  hundred  and  fifty — maybe," 
she  replied,  with  a  little  burst  of  merriment. 

"And  how  much  did  you  get  for  the  garments  you  had 
worn  twice,  and  then  seen  them  suddenly  grow  aged  in 
their  extreme  youth?" 

"Ruddy,  do  not  be  nasty — or  scornful.  I've  always 
worn  my  gowns  more  than  twice — some  of  them  a  great 
many  times,  except  when  I  detested  them.  And  anyhow, 
the  premature  death  of  a  gown  is  very,  very  good  for 
trade.  That  influences  many  ladies,  of  course." 

He  burst  out  laughing,  but  there  was  a  satirical  note 
in  the  gaiety,  or  something  still  harsher. 

"'We  deceive  ourselves  and  the  truth  is  not  in  us,'" 
he  answered.  "It's  all  such  a  hollow  make-believe." 

"What  is?" 

She  gazed  at  him  inquiringly,  for  this  mood  was  new  to 
her.  She  was  vaguely  conscious  of  some  sort  of  change 
in  him — not  exactly  toward  her,  but  a  change,  never- 
theless. 

"The  life  we  rich  people  lead  is  a  hollow  make-believe, 
Jasmine,"  he  said,  with  sudden  earnestness.  "I  don't 
know  what's  the  matter,  but  we're  not  getting  out  of  life 
all  we  ought  to  get;  and  we're  not  putting  into  it  all  we 
ought  to  put  in.  There's  a  sense  of  emptiness — of  famine 
somewhere." 

He  caught  the  reflection  of  his  face  in  the  glass  again, 
and  his  brow  contracted.  "We  get  sordid  and  sodden, 
and  we  lose  the  proportions  of  life.  I  wanted  Dick  Wilber- 
force  to  do  something  with  me  the  other  day,  and  he  de- 
clined. 'Why,  my  dear  fellow,'  I  said,  'you  know  you 
want  to  do  it?'  'Of  course  I  do,'  he  answered,  'but  I 
can't  afford  that  kind  of  thing,  and  you  know  it.'  Well, 
I  did  know  it,  but  I  had  forgotten.  I  was  only  thinking 
of  what  I  myself  could  afford  to  do.  I  was  setting  up  my 
no 


THE    APPIAN    WAY 

own  financial  standard,  and  was  forgetting  the  other  fel- 
lows who  hadn't  my  standard.  What's  the  result?  We 
drift  apart,  Wilberforce  and  I — well,  I  mean  Wilberforce 
as  a  type.  We  drift  into  sets  of  people  who  can  afford 
to  do  certain  things,  and  we  leave  such  a  lot  of  people 
behind  that  we  ought  to  have  clung  to,  and  that  we  would 
have  clung  to,  if  we  hadn't  been  so  much  thinking  of 
ourselves,  or  been  so  soddenly  selfish." 

A  rippling  laugh  rang  through  the  room.  "Boanerges 
— oh,  Boanerges  Byng!  'Owever  can  you  be  so  helo- 
quent!" 

Jasmine  put  both  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  looked 
up  at  him  with  that  look  which  had  fascinated  him — and 
so  many  others — in  their  day.  The  perfume  which  had 
intoxicated  him  in  the  first  days  of  his  love  of  her,  and 
steeped  his  senses  in  the  sap  of  youth  and  Eden,  smote 
them  again,  here  on  the  verge  of  the  desert  before  him. 
He  suddenly  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  pressed  her  to 
him  almost  roughly. 

"You  exquisite  siren — you  siren  of  all  time,"  he  said, 
with  a  note  of  joy  in  which  there  was,  too,  a  stark  cry  of 
the  soul.  He  held  her  face  back  from  him.  .  .  .  "If  you 
had  lived  a  thousand  years  ago  you  would  have  had  a 
thousand  lovers,  Jasmine.  Perhaps  you  did — who  knows! 
And  now  you  come  down  through  the  centuries  purified 
by  Time,  to  be  my  jasmine-flower." 

His  lip  trembled  a  little.  There  was  a  strange  melan- 
choly in  his  eyes,  belying  the  passion  and  rapture  of  his 
words. 

In  all  their  days  together  she  had  never  seen  him  in 
this  mood.  She  had  heard  him  storm  about  things  at 
times,  had  watched  his  big  impulses  working;  had  drawn 
the  thunder  from  his  clouds;  but  there  was  something 
moving  in  him  now  which  she  had  never  seen  before. 
Perhaps  it  was  only  a  passing  phase,  even  a  moment's 
mood,  but  it  made  a  strange  impression  on  her.  It  was 
remembered  by  them  both  long  after,  when  life  had  §cat- 
in 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

tered  its  vicissitudes  before  their  stumbling  feet  and  they 
had  passed  through  flood  and  fire. 

She  drew  back  and  looked  at  him  steadily,  reflectively, 
and  with  an  element  of  surprise  in  her  searching  look. 
She  had  never  thought  him  gifted  with  perception  or  in- 
sight, though  he  had  eloquence  and  an  eye  for  broad 
effects.  She  had  thought  him  curiously  ignorant  of  hu- 
man nature,  born  to  be  deceived,  full  of  child-like  illusions, 
never  understanding  the  real  facts  of  life,  save  in  the  way 
of  business — and  politics.  Women  he  never  seemed  by  a 
single  phrase  or  word  to  understand;  and  yet  now  he 
startled  her  with  a  sudden  revelation  and  insight  of  which 
she  had  not  thought  him  capable. 

"//  you  had  lived  a  thousand  years  ago  you  would  have 
had  a  thousand  lovers.  Perhaps  you  did — who  knows!  .  .  . 
And  now  you  come  down  through  the  centuries  purified  by 
Time — " 

The  words  slowly  repeated  themselves  in  her  brain. 
Many  and  many  a  time  she  had  imagined  herself  as  having 
lived  centuries  ago,  and  again  and  again  in  her  sleep  these 
imaginings  had  reflected  themselves  in  wild  dreams  of  her 
far  past — once  as  a  priestess  of  Isis,  once  as  a  Slavonian 
queen,  once  as  a  peasant  in  Syria,  and  many  times  as  a 
courtezan  of  Alexandria  or  Athens — many  times  as  that: 
one  of  the  gifted,  beautiful,  wonderful  women  whose 
houses  were  the  centres  of  culture,  influence,  and  power. 
She  had  imagined  herself,  against  her  will,  as  one  of  these 
women,  such  as  Cleopatra,  for  whom  the  world  were  well 
lost;  and  who,  at  last,  having  squeezed  the  orange  dry, 
but  while  yet  the  sun  was  coming  towards  noon,  in  scorn 
of  Life  and  Time  had  left  the  precincts  of  the  cheerful 
day  without  a  lingering  look.  .  .  .  Often  and  often 
such  dreams,  to  her  anger  and  confusion,  had  haunted 
her,  even  before  she  was  married;  and  she  had  been 
alternately  humiliated  and  fascinated  by  them.  Years 
ago  she  had  told  Ian  Stafford  of  one  of  the  dreams  of  a 
past  life — that  she  was  a  slave  in  Athens  who  saved  her 

112 


THE    APPIAN    WAY 

people  by  singing  to  the  Tyrant;  and  Ian  had  made  her 
sing  to  him,  in  a  voice  quite  in  keeping  with  her  per- 
sonality, delicate  and  fine  and  wonderfully  high  in  its 
range,  bird-like  in  its  quality,  with  trills  like  a  lark — a 
little  meretricious  but  captivating.  He  had  also  written 
for  her  two  verses  which  were  as  sharp  and  clear  in  her 
mind  as  the  letter  he  wrote  when  she  had  thrown  him 
over  so  dishonourably: 

"Your  voice  I  knew,  its  cadences  and  trill; 
It  stilled  the  tumult  and  the  overthrow, 
When  Athens  trembled  to  the  people's  will; 
I  knew  it — 'twas  a  thousand  years  ago. 

"I  see  the  fountains,  and  the  gardens  where 

You  sang  the  fury  from  the  Satrap's  brow; 
I  feel  the  quiver  of  the  raptured  air, 

I  heard  you  in  the  Athenian  grove — I  hear  you  now." 

As  the  words  flashed  into  her  mind  now  she  looked  at 
her  husband  steadfastly.  Were  there,  then,  some  unex- 
plored regions  in  his  nature,  where  things  dwelt,  of  which 
she  had  no  glimmering  of  knowledge?  Did  he  understand 
more  of  women  than  she  thought?  Could  she  then  really 
talk  to  him  of  a  thousand  things  of  the  mind  which  she 
had  ever  ruled  out  of  any  commerce  between  them,  one 
half  of  her  being  never  opened  up  to  his  sight  ?  Not  that 
he  was  deficient  in  intellect,  but,  to  her  thought,  his  was 
a  purely  objective  mind;  or  was  it  objective  because  it 
had  not  been  trained  or  developed  subjectively?  Had  she 
ever  really  tried  to  find  a  region  in  his  big  nature  where 
the  fine  allusiveness  and  subjectivity  of  the  human  mind 
could  have  free  life  and  untrammelled  exercise,  could 
gambol  in  green  fields  of  imagination  and  adventure  upon 
strange  seas  of  discovery?  A  shiver  of  pain,  of  remorse, 
went  through  her  frame  now,  as  he  held  her  at  arm's- 
length  and  looked  at  her.  .  .  .  Had  she  started  right?  Had 
she  ever  given  their  natures  a  chance  to  discover  each 
other?  Warmth  and  passion  and  youth  and  excitement 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

and  variety — oh,  infinite  variety  there  had  been! — but  had 
the  start  been  a  fair  one,  had  she,  with  a  whole  mind  and 
a  full  soul  of  desire,  gone  to  him  first  and  last  ?  What  had 
been  the  governing  influence  in  their  marriage  where  she 
was  concerned? 

Three  years  of  constant  motion,  and  never  an  hour's 
peace ;  three  years  of  agitated  waters,  and  never  in  all  that 
time  three  days  alone  together.  What  was  there  to  show 
for  the  three  years?  That  for  which  he  had  longed  with 
a  great  longing  had  been  denied  him ;  for  he  had  come  of 
a  large  family,  and  had  the  simple  primitive  mind  and 
heart.  Even  in  his  faults  he  had  ever  been  primitively 
simple  and  obvious.  She  had  been  energetic,  helping 
great  charities,  aiding  in  philanthropic  enterprises,  with 
more  than"  a  little  shrewdness  preventing  him  from  being 
robbed  right  and  left  by  adventurers  of  all  descriptions; 
and  yet — and  yet  it  was  all  so  general,  so  soulless,  her  ac- 
tivity in  good  causes.  Was  there  a  single  afflicted  per- 
son, one  forlorn  soul  whom  she  had  directly  and  person- 
ally helped,  or  sheltered  from  the  storm  for  a  moment, 
one  bereaved  being  whose  eyes  she  had  dried  by  her 
own  direct  personal  sympathy? 

Was  it  this  which  had  been  more  or  less  vaguely  work- 
ing in  his  mind  a  little  while  before  when  she  had  noticed 
a  change  in  him;  or  was  it  that  he  was  disappointed  that 
they  were  two  and  no  more — always  two,  and  no  more? 
Was  it  that  which  was  working  in  his  mind,  and  making 
him  say  hard  things  about  their  own  two  commendable 
selves? 

"//  you  had  lived  a  thousand  years  ago  you  would  have 
had  a  thousand  lovers.  .  .  .  And  now  you  come  down 
through  the  centuries  purified  by  Time,  to  be  my  jasmine- 
flower" — 

She  did  not  break  the  silence  for  some  time,  but  at  last 
she  said:  "And  what  wera  you  a  thousand  years  ago,  my 
man?" 

Jie  drew  a  hot  hand  across  a  troubled  brow,  "I?  I 
114 


THE    APPIAN   WAY 

was  the  Satrap  whose  fury  you  soothed  away,  or  I  was  the 
Antony  you  lured  from  fighting  Caesar." 

It  was  as  though  he  had  read  those  lines  written  by 
Ian  Stafford  long  ago. 

Again  that  perfume  of  hers  caught  his  senses,  and  his 
look  softened  wonderfully.  A  certain  unconscious  but 
underlying  discontent  appeared  to  vanish  from  his  eyes, 
and  he  said,  abruptly:  "I  have  it — I  have  it.  This  dress 
is  like  the  one  you  wore  the  first  night  that  we  met.  It's 
the  same  kind  of  stuff,  it's  just  the  same  colour  and  the 
same  style.  Why,  I  see  it  all  as  plain  as  can  be — there 
at  the  opera.  And  you  wore  blue  the  day  I  tried  to  pro- 
pose to  you  and  couldn't,  and  asked  you  down  to  Wales 
instead.  Lord,  how  I  funked  it!"  He  laughed,  happily 
almost.  "Yes,  you  wore  blue  the  first  time  we  met — like 
this." 

"It  was  the  same  skirt,  and  a  different  bodice,  of 
course — both  those  first  times,"  she  answered.  Then  she 
stepped  back  and  daintily  smoothed  out  the  gown  she  was 
wearing,  smiling  at  him  as  she  did  that  day  three  years 
ago.  She  had  put  on  this  particular  gown,  remembering 
that  Ian  Stafford  had  said  charming  things  about  that 
other  blue  gown  just  before  he  bade  her  good-bye  three 
years  ago.  That  was  why  she  wore  blue  this  night — to 
recall  to  Ian  what  it  appeared  he  had  forgotten.  And 
presently  she  would  dine  alone  with  Ian  in  her  husband's 
house — and  with  her  husband's  blessing.  Pique  and 
pride  were  in  her  heart,  and  she  meant  Ian  Stafford  to 
remember.  No  man  was  adamantine;  at  least  she  had 
never  met  one — not  one,  neither  bishop  nor  octogenarian. 

"Come,  Ruddy,  you  must  dress,  or  you'll  be  late,"  she 
continued,  lightly,  touching  his  cheek  with  her  fingers; 
"and  you'll  come  down  and  apologize,  and  put  me  right 
with  Ian  Stafford,  won't  you?" 

"Certainly.     I  won't  be*  five  minutes.     I'll — " 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door  and  a  footman,  entering, 
announced  that  Mr.  Stafford  was  in  the  drawing-room. 
"5 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

"Show  him  into  my  sitting-room,"  she  said.  "The 
drawing-room,  indeed,"  she  added  to  her  husband — "it  is 
so  big,  and  I  am  so  small.  I  feel  sometimes  as  though  I 
wanted  to  live  in  a  tiny,  tiny  house." 

Her  words  brought  a  strange  light  to  his  eyes.  Sud- 
denly he  caught  her  arm. 

"Jasmine,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  "let  us  have  a  good  talk 
over  things — over  everything.  I  want  to  see  if  we  can't 
get  more  out  of  life  than  we  do.  There's  something  wrong. 
What  is  it?  I  don't  know;  but  perhaps  we  could  find 
out  if  we  put  our  heads  together — eh?"  There  was  a 
strange,  troubled  longing  in  his  look. 

She  nodded  and  smiled.  "Certainly — to-night  when 
you  get  back,"  she  said.  "We'll  open  the  machine  and 
find  what's  wrong  with  it."  She  laughed,  and  so  did  he. 

As  she  went  down  the  staircase  she  mused  to  herself, 
and  there  was  a  shadow  in  her  eyes  and  over  her  face. 

"Poor  Ruddy!    Poor  Ruddy!"  she  said. 

Once  again  before  she  entered  the  sitting-room,  as  she 
turned  and  looked  back,  she  said: 

"Poor  boy  .  .  .  Yet  he  knew  about  a  thousand  years 
ago!"  she  added  with  a  nervous  little  laugh;  and  with  an 
air  of  sprightly  eagerness  she  entered  to  Ian  Stafford. 


CHAPTER  X 

AN   ARROW   FINDS   A   BREAST 

AS  he  entered  the  new  sphere  of  Jasmine's  influence, 
f\  charm,  and  existence,  Ian  Stafford's  mind  became 
flooded  by  new  impressions.  He  was  not  easily  moved 
by  vastness  or  splendour.  His  ducal  grandfather's  houses 
were  palaces,  the  estates  were  a  fair  slice  of  two  counties, 
and  many  of  his  relatives  had  sumptuous  homes  stored 
with  priceless  legacies  of  art.  He  had  approached  the 
great  house  which  Byng  had  built  for  himself  with  some 
trepidation;  for  though  Byng  came  of  people  whose  names 
counted  for  a  good  deal  in  the  north  of  England,  still,  in 
newly  acquired  fortunes  made  suddenly  in  new  lands 
there  was  something  that  coarsened  taste — an  unmodu- 
lated, if  not  a  garish,  elegance  which  "hit  you  in  the  eye," 
as  he  had  put  it  to  himself.  He  asked  himself  why  Byng 
had  not  been  content  to  buy  one  of  the  great  mansions 
which  could  always  be  had  in  London  for  a  price,  where 
time  had  softened  all  the  outlines,  had  given  that  sub- 
dued harmony  in  architecture  which  only  belongs  to  age. 
Byng  could  not  buy  with  any  money  those  wonderful 
Adam's  mantels,  over-mantels  and  ceilings  which  had  a 
glory  quite  their  own.  There  must,  therefore,  be  an  air 
of  newness  in  the  new  mansion,  which  was  too  much  in 
keeping  with  the  new  money,  the  gold  as  yet  not  worn 
smooth  by  handling,  the  staring,  brand-new  sovereigns 
looking  like  impostors. 

As  he  came  upon  the  great  house,  however,  in  the  soft 
light  of  evening,  he  was  conscious  of  no  violence  done  to 
his  artistic  sense.     It  was  a  big  building,  severely  simple 
117 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

in  design,  yet  with  the  rich  grace,  spacious  solidity,  and 
decorative  relief  of  an  Italian  palace:  compact,  generous, 
traditionally  genuine  and  wonderfully  proportionate. 

"Egad,  Byng,  you  had  a  good  architect — and  good 
sense!"  he  said  to  himself.  "It's  the  real  thing;  and  he 
did  it  before  Jasmine  came  on  the  scene  too." 

The  outside  of  the  house  was  Byng's,  but  the  inside 
would,  in  the  essentials,  of  course,  be  hers;  and  he  would 
see  what  he  would  see.  » 

When  the  door  opened,  it  came  to  him  instantly  that 
the  inside  and  outside  were  in  harmony.  How  complete 
was  that  harmony  remained  to  be  seen,  but  an  apparently 
unstudied  and  delightful  reticence  was  noticeable  at  once. 
The  newness  had  been  rubbed  off  the  gold  somehow,  and 
the  old  furniture — Italian,  Spanish — which  relieved  the 
spaciousness  of  the  entrance  gave  an  air  of  Time  and 
Time's  eloquence  to  this  three-year-old  product  of  modern 
architectural  skill. 

As  he  passed  on,  he  had  more  than  a  glimpse  of  the 
ball-room,  which  maintained  the  dignity  and  the  refined 
beauty  of  the  staircase  and  the  hallways;  and  only  in  the 
insistent  audacity  and  intemperate  colouring  of  some 
Rubens'  pictures  did  he  find  anything  of  that  inherent 
tendency  to  exaggeration  and  Oriental  magnificence  be- 
hind the  really  delicate  artistic  faculties  possessed  by 
Jasmine. 

The  drawing-room  was  charming.  It  was  not  quite 
perfect,  however.  It  was  too  manifestly  and  studiously 
arranged,  and  it  had  the  finnicking  exactness  of  the 
favourite  gallery  of  some  connoisseur.  For  its  nobility 
of  form,  its  deft  and  wise  softness  of  colouring,  its  half- 
smothered  Italian  joyousness  of  design  in  ceiling  and  cor- 
nice, the  arrangement  of  choice  and  exquisite  furniture 
was  too  careful,  too  much  like  the  stage.  He  smiled  at 
the  sight  of  it,  for  he  saw  and  knew  that  Jasmine  had  had 
his  playful  criticism  of  her  occasionally  flamboyant  taste 
in  mind,  and  that  she  had  over-revised,  as  it  were.  She 
118 


AN    ARROW    FINDS    A    BREAST 

had,  like  a  literary  artist,  polished  and  refined  and  stippled 
the  effect,  till  something  of  personal  touch  had  gone,  and 
there  remained  classic  elegance  without  the  sting  of  life 
and  the  idiosyncrasy  of  its  creator's  imperfections.  No, 
the  drawing-room  would  not  quite  do,  though  it  was  near 
the  perfect  thing.  His  judgment  was  not  yet  complete, 
however.  When  he  was  shown  into  Jasmine's  sitting- 
room  his  breath  came  a  little  quicker,  for  here  would  be 
the  real  test;  and  curiosity  was  stirring  greatly  in  him. 

Yes,  here  was  the  woman  herself,  wilful,  original,  de- 
lightful, with  a  flower-like  delicacy  joined  to  a  determined 
and  gorgeous  audacity.  Luxury  was  heaped  on  luxury, 
in  soft  lights  from  Indian  lamps  and  lanterns,  in  the  great 
divan,  the  deep  lounge,  the  piled-up  cushions,  the  piano 
littered  with  incongruous  if  artistic  bijouterie;  but  every- 
where, everywhere,  books  in  those  appealing  bindings  and 
with  that  paper  so  dear  to  every  lover  of  literature.  In- 
stinctively he  picked  them  up  one  by  one,  and  most  of 
them  were  affectionately  marked  by  marginal  notes  of 
criticism,  approval,  or  reference;  and  all  showing  the 
eager,  ardent  mind  of  one  who  loved  books.  He  noticed, 
however,  that  most  of  the  books  he  had  seen  before,  and 
some  of  them  he  had  read  with  her  in  the  days  which 
were  gone  forever.  Indeed,  in  one  of  them  he  found  some 
of  his  own  pencilled  marginal  notes,  beneath  which  she 
had  written  her  insistent  opinions,  sometimes  with  amaz- 
ing point.  There  were  few  new  books,  and  they  were 
mostly  novels;  and  it  was  borne  in  on  him  that  not  many 
of  these  annotated  books  belonged  to  the  past  three  years. 
The  millions  had  come,  the  power  and  the  place;  but 
something  had  gone  with  their  coming. 

He  was  turning  over  the  pages  of  a  volume  of  Browning 
when  she  entered;  and  she  had  an  instant  to  note  the 
grace  and  manly  dignity  of  his  figure,  the  poise  of  the  in- 
tellectual head — the  type  of  a  perfect,  well-bred  animal, 
with  the  accomplishment  of  a  man  of  purpose  and  execu- 
tive design.  A  little  frown  of  trouble  came  to  her  fore- 
9  "9 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

head,  but  she  drove  it  away  with  a  merry  laugh,  as  he 
turned  at  the  rustle  of  her  skirts  and  came  forward. 

He  noted  her  blue  dress,  he  guessed  the  reason  she  had 
put  it  on;  and  he  made  an  inward  comment  of  scorn.  It 
was  the  same  blue,  and  it  was  near  the  same  style  of  the 
dress  she  wore  the  last  time  he  saw  her.  She  watched  to 
see  whether  it  made  any  impression  on  him,  and  was 
piqued  to  observe  that  he  who  had  in  that  far  past  always 
swept  her  with  an  admiring,  discriminating,  and  deferen- 
tial glance,  now  only  gave  her  deference  of  a  courteous 
but  perfunctory  kind.  It  made  the  note  to  all  she  said 
and  did  that  evening — the  daring,  the  brilliance,  the  light 
allusion  to  past  scenes  and  happenings,  the  skilful  com- 
ment on  the  present,  the  joyous  dominance  of  a  position 
made  supreme  by  beauty  and  by  gold;  behind  which  were 
anger  and  bitterness,  and  wild  and  desperate  revolt. 

For,  if  love  was  dead  in  him,  and  respect,  and  all  that 
makes  man's  association  with  woman  worth  while,  humili- 
ation and  the  sting  of  punishment  and  penalty  were  alive 
in  her,  flaying  her  spirit,  rousing  that  mad  streak  which 
was  in  her  grandfather,  who  had  had  many  a  combat,  the 
outcome  of  wild  elements  of  passion  in  him.  She  was  not 
happy;  she  had  never  been  happy  since  she  married  Rud- 
yard  Byng;  yet  she  had  said  to  herself  so  often  that  she 
might  have  been  at  peace,  in  a  sense,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  letter  which  Ian  Stafford  had  written  her,  when  she 
turned  from  him  to  the  man  she  married. 

The  passionate  resolve  to  compel  him  to  reproach  him- 
self in  soul  for  his  merciless,  if  subtle,  indictment  of  her, 
to  bring  him  to  the  old  place  where  he  had  knelt  in  spirit 
so  long  ago — ah,  it  was  so  long! — came  to  her.  Self- 
indulgent  and  pitifully  mean  as  she  had  been,  still  this 
man  had  influenced  her  more  than  any  other  in  the 
world — in  that  region  where  the  best  of  herself  lay,  the 
place  to  which  her  eyes  had  turned  always  when  she 
wanted  a  consoling  hour.  He  belonged  to  her  realm  of 
the  imagination,  of  thought,  of  insight,  of  intellectual 


AN    ARROW    FINDS    A    BREAST 

passions  and  the  desires  of  the  soul.  Far  above  any 
physical  attraction  Ian  had  ever  possessed  for  her  was 
the  deep  conviction  that  he  gave  her  mind  what  no  one 
else  gave  it,  that  he  was  the  being  who  knew  the  song 
her  spirit  sang.  .  .  .  He  should  not  go  forever  from 
her  and  with  so  cynical  a  completeness.  He  should 
return;  he  should  not  triumph  in  his  self -righteousness, 
be  a  living  reproach  to  her  always  by  his  careless  in- 
difference to  everything  that  had  ever  been  between 
them.  If  he  treated  her  so  because  of  what  she  had 
done  to  him,  with  what  savagery  might  not  she  be 
treated,  if  all  that  had  happened  in  the  last  three  years 
were 'open  as  a  book  before  him! 

Her  husband — she  had  not  thought  of  that.  So  much 
had  happened  in  the  past  three  years;  there  had  been  so 
much  adulation  and  worship  and  daring  assault  upon  her 
heart — or  emotions — from  quarters  of  unusual  distinction, 
that  the  finest  sense  of  her  was  blunted,  and  true  pro- 
portions were  lost.  Rudyard  ought  never  to  have  made 
that  five  months'  visit  to  South  Africa  a  year  before, 
leaving  her  alone  to  make  the  fight  against  the  forces 
round  her.  Those  five  months  had  brought  a  change  in 
her,  had  made  her  indignant  at  times  against  Rudyard. 

"Why  did  he  go  to  South  Africa?  Why  did  he  not 
take  me  with  him?  Why  did  he  leave  me  here  alone?" 
she  had  asked  herself.  She  did  not  realize  that  there 
would  have  been  no  fighting  at  all,  that  all  the  forces 
contending  against  her  purity  and  devotion  would  never 
have  gathered  at  her  feet  and  washed  against  the  shores 
of  her  resolution,  if  she  had  loved  Rudyard  Byng  when 
she  married  him  as  she  might  have  loved  him,  ought  to 
have  loved  him. 

The  faithful  love  unconsciously  announces  its  fidelity, 

and  men  instinctively  are  aware  of  it,  and  leave  it  un- 

assailed.     It  is  the  imperfect  love  which  subtly  invites  the 

siege,  which  makes  the  call  upon  human  interest,  selfish- 

121 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

ness,  or  sympathy,  so  often  without  intended  unscrupu- 
lousness  at  first.  She  had  escaped  the  suspicion,  if  not 
the  censure,  of  the  world — or  so  she  thought;  and  in  the 
main  she  was  right.  But  she  was  now  embarked  on  an 
enterprise  which  never  would  have  been  begun,  if  she  had 
not  gambled  with  her  heart  and  soul  three  years  ago;  if 
she  had  not  dragged  away  the  veil  from  her  inner  self, 
putting  her  at  the  mercy  of  one  who  could  say,  "I  know 
you — what  you  are." 

Just  before  they  went  to  the  dining-room  Byng  came 
in  and  cheerily  greeted  Stafford,  apologizing  for  having 
forgotten  his  engagement  to  dine  with  Wallstein. 

"But  you  and  Jasmine  will  have  much  to  talk  about," 
he  said — "such  old  friends  as  you  are;  and  fond  of  books 
and  art  and  music  and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  .  .  .  Glad  to 
see  you  looking  so  well,  Stafford,"  he  continued.  "They 
say  you  are  the  coming  man.  Well,  au  revoir.  I  hope  Jas- 
mine will  give  you  a  good  dinner."  Presently  he  was  gone 
in  a  heavy  movement  of  good-nature  and  magnanimity. 

"Changed — greatly  changed,  and  not  for  the  better," 
said  Ian  Stafford  to  himself.  "This  life  has  told  on  him. 
The  bronze  of  the  veld  has  vanished,  and  other  things 
are  disappearing." 

At  the  table  with  the  lights  and  the  flowers  and  the 
exquisite  appointments,  with  appetite  flattered  and 
tempted  by  a  dinner  of  rare  simplicity  and  perfect  cook- 
ing, Jasmine  was  radiant,  amusing,  and  stimulating  in  her 
old  way.  She  had  never  seemed  to  him  so  much  a  mis- 
tress of  delicate  satire  and  allusiveness.  He  rose  to  the 
combat  with  an  alacrity  made  more  agile  by  considerable 
abstinence,  for  clever  women  were  few,  and  real  talk  was 
the  rarest  occurrence  in  his  life,  save  with  men  in  his  own 
profession  chiefly. 

But  later,  in  her  sitting-room,  after  the  coffee  had 
come,  there  was  a  change,  and  the  transition  was  made 
with  much  skill  and  sensitiveness.  Into  Jasmine's  voice 
there  came  another  and  more  reflective  note,  and  the  drift 


AN    ARROW    FINDS    A    BREAST 

of  the  conversation  changed.  Books  brought  the  new 
current;  and  soon  she  had  him  moving  almost  uncon- 
sciously among  old  scenes,  recalling  old  contests  of  ideas, 
and  venturing  on  bold  reproductions  of  past  intellectual 
ideals.  But  though  they  were  in  this  dangerous  field  of 
the  past,  he  did  not  once  betray  a  sign  of  feeling,  not  even 
when,  poring  over  Coventry  Patmore's  poems,  her  hand 
touched  his,  and  she  read  the  lines  which  they  had  read 
together  so  long  ago,  with  no  thought  of  any  significance 
to  themselves : 

"With  all  my  will,  but  much  against  my  heart, 
We  two  now  part. 
My  very  Dear, 

Our  solace  is  the  sad  road  lies  so  clear.  .  .  . 
Go  thou  to  East,  I  West. 
We  will  not  say 
There's  any  hope,  it  is  so  far  away  .  .  ." 

He  read  the  verses  with  a  smile  of  quiet  enjoyment,  say- 
ing, when  he  had  finished: 

"A  really  moving  and  intimate  piece  of  work.  I  won- 
der what  their  story  was — a  hopeless  love,  of  course.  An 
affaire — an '  episode ' — London  ladies  now  call  such  things. ' ' 

"You  find  London  has  changed  much  since  you  went 
away — in  three  years  only?"  she  asked. 

"Three  years — why,  it's  an  eternity,  or  a  minute,  as 
you  are  obliged  to  live  it.  In  penal  servitude  it  is  cen- 
turies, in  the  Appian  Way  of  pleasure  it  is  a  sunrise  mo- 
ment. Actual  time  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  clock." 

She  looked  up  to  the  little  gold-lacquered  clock  on  the 
mantel-piece.  "See, it  is  going  to  strike,"  she  said.  As 
she  spoke,  the  little  silver  hammer  softly  struck.  "That 
is  the  clock-time,  but  what  time  is  it  really — for  you,  for 
instance?" 

"In  Elysium  there  is  no  time,"  he  murmured  with  a 
gallantry  so  intentionally  obvious  and  artificial  that  her 
pulses  beat  with  anger. 

123 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"It  is  wonderful,  then,  how  you  managed  the  dinner- 
hour  so  exactly.  You  did  not  miss  it  by  a  fraction." 

"It  is  only  when  you  enter  Elysium  that  there  is  no 
time.  It  was  eight  o'clock  when  I  arrived — by  the  world's 
time .  Since  then  I  have  been  dead  to  time — and  the  world . ' ' 

"You  do  not  suggest  that  you  are  in  heaven?"  she 
asked,  ironically. 

' '  Nothing  so  extreme  as  that.    All  extremes  are  violent." 

"Ah,  the  middle  place — then  you  are  in  purgatory?" 

"But  what  should  you  be  doing  in  purgatory?  Or 
have  you  only  come  with  a  drop  of  water  to  cool  the 
tongue  of  Dives?"  His  voice  trailed  along  so  coolly  that 
it  incensed  her  further. 

"Certainly  Dives'  tongue  is  blistering,"  she  said  with 
a  great  effort  to  still  the  raging  tumult  within  her.  "Yet 
I  would  not  cool  it  if  I  could." 

Suddenly  the  anger  seemed  to  die  out  of  her,  and  she 
looked  at  him  as  she  did  in  the  days  before  Rudyard 
Byng  came  across  her  path — eagerly,  childishly,  eloquent- 
ly, inquiringly.  He  was  the  one  man  who  satisfied  the 
intellectual  and  temperamental  side  of  her;  and  he 
had  taught  her  more  than  any  one  else  in  the  world. 
She  realized  that  she  had  "Tossed  him  violently  like  a 
ball  into  a  far  country,"  and  that  she  had  not  now  a 
vestige  of  power  over  him — either  of  his  senses  or  his  mind; 
that  he  was  master  of  the  situation.  But  was  it  so  that 
there  was  a  man  whose  senses  could  not  be  touched  when 
all  else  failed?  She  was  very  woman,  eager  for  the  power 
which  she  had  lost,  and  power  was  hard  to  get — by  what 
devious  ways  had  she  travelled  to  find  it! 

As  they  leaned  over  a  book  of  coloured  prints  of  Gains- 
borough, Romney,  and  Vandyke,  her  soft,  warm  breast 
touched  his  arm  and  shoulder,  a  strand  of  her  cobweb, 
golden  hair  swept  his  cheek,  and  a  sigh  came  from  her 
lips,  so  like  those  of  that  lass  who  caught  and  held  her 
Nelson  to  the  end,  and  died  at  last  in  poverty,  friendless, 
homeless,  and  alone. 

124 


AN    ARROW    FINDS    A    BREAST 

Did  he  fancy  that  he  heard  a  word  breathing  through 
her  sigh — his  name,  Ian?  For  one  instant  the  wild, 
cynical  desire  came  over  him  to  turn  and  clasp  her  in  his 
arms,  to  press  those  lips  which  never  but  once  he  had 
kissed,  and  that  was  when  she  had  plighted  her  secret 
troth  to  him,  and  had  broken  it  for  three  million  pounds. 
Why  not?  She  was  a  woman,  she  was  beautiful,  she  was 
a  siren  who  had  lured  him  and  used  him  and  tossed  him 
by.  Why  not?  All  her  art  was  now  used,  the  art  of  the 
born  coquette  which  had  been  exquisitely  cultivated  since 
she  was  a  child,  to  bring  him  back  to  her  feet — to  the  feet 
of  the  wife  of  Rudyard  Byng.  Why  not?  For  an  instant 
he  had  the  dark  impulse  to  treat  her  as  she  deserved,  and 
take  a  kiss  "as  long  as  my  exile,  as  sweet  as  my  revenge "; 
but  then  the  bitter  memory  came  that  this  was  the  woman 
to  whom  he  had  given  the  best  of  which  he  was  capable 
and  the  promise  of  that  other  best  which  time  and  love 
and  life  truly  lived  might  accomplish;  and  the  wild  thing 
died  in  him. 

The  fever  fled,  and  his  senses  became  as  cold  as  the 
statue  of  Andromeda  on  the  pedestal  at  his  hand. 
He  looked  at  her.  He  did  not  for  the  moment  realize 
that  she  was  in  reality  only  a  girl,  a  child  in  so  much; 
wilful,  capricious,  unregulated  in  some  ways,  with  the 
hereditary  taint  of  a  distorted  moral  sense,  and  yet  able, 
intuitive  and  wise,  in  so  many  aspects  of  life  and  con- 
versation. Looking,  he  determined  that  she  should  never 
have  that  absolution  which  any  outward  or  inward  re- 
newal of  devotion  would  give  her.  Scorn  was  too  deep — 
that  arrogant,  cruel,  adventitious  attribute  of  the  sinner 
who  has  not  committed  the  same  sin  as  the  person  he 
despises — 

"Sweet  is  the  refuge  of  scorn." 

His  scorn  was  too  sweet;  and  for  the  relish  of  it  on  his 
tongue,  the  price  must  be  paid  one  way  or  another.     The 
sin  of  broken  faith  she  had  sinned  had  been  the  fruit  of 
125 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

a  great  temptation,  meaning  more  to  a  woman,  a  hun- 
dred times,  than  to  a  man.  For  a  man  there  is  always 
present  the  chance  of  winning  a  vast  fortune  and  the 
power  that  it  brings;  but  it  can  seldom  come  to  a  woman 
except  through  marriage.  It  ill  became  him  to  be  self- 
righteous,  for  his  life  had  not  been  impeccable — 

"The  shaft  of  slander  shot 
Missed  only  the  right  blot!" 

Something  of  this  came  to  him  suddenly  now  as  she 
drew  away  from  him  with  a  sense  of  humiliation,  and  a 
tear  came  unbidden  to  her  eye. 

She  wiped  the  tear  away,  hastily,  as  there  came  a  slight 
tapping  at  the  door,  and  Krool  entered,  his  glance  en- 
veloping them  both  in  one  lightning  survey — like  the  in- 
stinct of  the  dweller  in  wild  places  of  the  earth,  who  feels 
danger  where  all  is  most  quiet,  and  ever  scans  the  veld 
or  bush  with  the  involuntary  vigilance  belonging  to 
the  life.  His  look  rested  on  Jasmine  for  a  moment  be- 
fore he  spoke,  and  Stafford  inwardly  observed  that  here 
was  an  enemy  to  the  young  wife  whose  hatred  was  deep. 
He  was  conscious,  too,  that  Jasmine  realized  the  antipathy. 
Indeed,  she  had  done  so  from  the  first  days  she  had 
seen  Krool,  and  had  endeavoured,  without  success,  to 
induce  Byng  to  send  the  man  back  to  South  Africa,  and 
to  leave  him  there  last  year  when  he  went  again  to 
Johannesburg.  It  was  the  only  thing  in  which  Byng 
had  proved  invulnerable,  and  Krool  had  remained  a 
menace  which  she  vaguely  felt  and  tried  to  conquer,  which, 
in  vain,  Adrian  Fellowes  had  endeavoured  to  remove. 
For  in  the  years  in  which  Fellowes  had  been  Byng's  secre- 
tary his  relations  with  Krool  seemed  amiable  and  he  had 
made  light  of  Jasmine's  prejudices. 

"The  butler  is  out  and  they  come  me,"  Krool  said. 
"  Mr.  Stafford's  servant  is  here.  There  is  a  girl  for  to  see 
him,  if  he  will  let.  The  boy,  Jigger,  his  name.  Some- 
thing happens." 

126 


AN    ARROW    FINDS    A    BREAST 

Stafford  frowned,  then  turned  to  Jasmine.  He  told 
her  who  Jigger  was,  and  of  the  incident  the  day  before, 
adding  that  he  had  no  idea  of  the  reason  for  the  visit;  but 
it  must  be  important,  or  nothing  would  have  induced  his 
servant  to  fetch  the  girl. 

"  I  will  come,"  he  said  to  Krool,  but  Jasmine's  curiosity 
was  roused. 

"Won't  you  see  her  here?"  she  asked. 

Stafford  nodded  assent,  and  presently  Krool  showed  the 
girl  into  the  room. 

For  an  instant  she  stood  embarrassed  and  confused, 
then  she  addressed  herself  to  Stafford.  "I'm  Lou — 
Jigger's  sister,"  she  said,  with  white  lips.  "  I  come  to  ask 
if  you'd  go  to  him.  'E's  been  hurt  bad — knocked  down 
by  a  fire-engine,  and  the  doctor  says  'e  can't  live.  'E 
made  yer  a  promise,  and  'e  wanted  me  to  tell  yer  that  'e 
meant  to  keep  it;  but  if  so  be  as  you'd  come,  and  wouldn't 
mind  a-comin',  'e'd  tell  yer  himself.  'E  made  that  free 
becos  'e  had  brekfis  wiv  ye.  'E's  all  right — the  best 
as  ever — the  top  best."  Suddenly  the  tears  flooded  her 
eyes  and  streamed  down  her  pale  cheeks.  "  Oh,  'e 
was  the  best  —  my  Gawd,  'e  was  the  best!  If  it  'd 
make  'im  die  happy,  you'd  come,  y'r  gryce,  wouldn't 
y'r?" 

Child  of  the  slums  as  she  was,  she  was  exceedingly 
comely  and  was  simply  and  respectably  dressed.  Her 
eyes  were  big  and  brown  like  Stafford's;  her  face  was  a 
delicate  oval,  and  her  hair  was  a  deep  black,  waving  freely 
over  a  strong,  broad  forehead.  It  was  her  speech  that 
betrayed  her;  otherwise  she  was  little  like  the  flower-girl 
that  Adrian  Fellowes  had  introduced  to  Al'mah,  who  had 
got  her  a  place  in  the  chorus  of  the  opera  and  had  also 
given  her  personal  care  and  friendly  help. 

"Where  is  he?    In  the  hospital?"  Stafford  asked. 

"It  was  just  beside  our  own  'ome  it  'appened.  We 
got  two  rooms  now,  Jigger  and  me.  'E  was  took  in  there. 
The  doctor  come,  but  'e  says  it  ain't  no  use.  'E  didn't 
127 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

seem  to  care  much,  and  'e  didn't  give  no  'ope,  not  even 
when  I  said  I'd  give  him  all  me  wages  for  a  year." 

Jasmine  was  beside  her  now,  wiping  her  tears  and  hold- 
ing her  hand,  her  impulsive  nature  stirred,  her  heart 
throbbing  with  desire  to  help.  Suddenly  she  remembered 
what  Rudyard  had  said  up-stairs  three  hours  ago,  that 
there  wasn't  a  single  person  in  the  world  to  whom  they 
had  done  an  act  which  was  truly  and  purely  personal 
during  the  past  three  years:  and  she  had  a  tremulous 
desire  to  help  this  crude,  mothering,  passionately  pitiful 
girl. 

"What  will  you  do?"  Jasmine  said  to  Stafford. 

"  I  will  go  at  once.  Tell  my  servant  to  have  up  a  cab," 
he  said  to  Krool,  who  stood  outside  the  door. 

"Truly,  'e  will  be  glad,"  the  girl  exclaimed.  "'E  told 
me  about  the  suvring,  and  Sunday-week  for  brekfis,"  she 
murmured.  "You'll  never  miss  the  time,  y'r  gryce. 
Gawd  knows  you'll  not  miss  it — an'  'e  ain't  got  much 
left." 

"I  will  go,  too — if  you  will  let  me,"  said  Jasmine  to 
Stafford.  "You  must  let  me  go.  I  want  to  help — so 
much." 

"No,  you  must  not  come,"  he  replied.  "I  will  pick 
up  a  surgeon  in  Harley  Street,  and  we'll  see  if  it  is  as 
hopeless  as  she  says.  But  you  must  not  come  to-night. 
To-morrow,  certainly,  to-morrow,  if  you  will.  Perhaps 
you  can  do  some  good  then.  I  will  let  you  know." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  say  good-bye,  as  the  girl  passed 
out  with  Jasmine's  kiss  on  her  cheek  and  a  comforting 
assurance  of  help. 

Jasmine  did  not  press  her  request.  First  there  was  the 
fact  that  Rudyard  did  not  know,  and  might  strongly  dis- 
approve; and  secondly,  somehow,  she  had  got  nearer 
to  Stafford  in  the  last  few  minutes  than  in  all  the  previous 
hours  since  they  had  met  again.  Nowhere,  by  all  her 
art,  had  she  herself  touched  him,  or  opened  up  in  his 
nature  one  tiny  stream  of  feeling;  but  this  girl's  story 
128 


AN    ARROW    FINDS    A    BREAST 

and  this  piteous  incident  had  softened  him,  had  broken 
down  the  barriers  which  had  checked  and  baffled  her. 
There  was  something  almost  gentle  in  his  smile  as  he  said 
good-bye,  and  she  thought  she  detected  warmth  in  the 
clasp  of  his  hand. 

Left  alone,  she  sat  in  the  silence,  pondering  as  she  had 
not  pondered  in  the  past  three  years.  These  few  days  in 
town,  out  of  the  season,  were  sandwiched  between  social 
functions  from  which  their  lives  were  never  free.  They 
had  ever  passed  from  event  to  event  like  minor  royalties 
with  endless  little  ceremonies  and  hospitalities;  and  there 
had  been  so  little  time  to  meditate — had  there  even  been 
the  wish? 

The  house  was  very  still,  and  the  far-off,  muffled  rumble 
of  omnibuses  and  cabs  gave  a  background  of  dignity  to 
this  interior  peace  and  luxurious  quiet.  For  long  she  sat 
unmoving — nearly  two  hours — alone  with  her  inmost 
thoughts.  Then  she  went  to  the  little  piano  in  the  corner 
where  stood  the  statue  of  Andromeda,  and  began  to  play 
softly.  Her  fingers  crept  over  the  keys,  playing  snatches 
of  things  she  knew  years  before,  improvising  soft,  passion- 
ate little  movements.  She  took  no  note  of  time.  At  last 
the  clock  struck  twelve,  and  still  she  sat  there  playing. 
Then  she  began  to  sing  a  song  which  Alice  Tynemouth 
had  written  and  set  to  music  two  years  before.  It  was 
simply  yet  passionately  written,  and  the  wail  of  anguished 
disappointment,  of  wasted  chances  was  in  it — 

"Once  in  the  twilight  of  the  Austrian  hills, 
A  word  came  to  me,  beautiful  and  good; 
If  I  had  spoken  it,  that  message  of  the  stars, 
Love  would  have  filled  thy  blood: 
Love  would  have  sent  thee  pulsing  to  my  arms, 
Thy  heart  a  nestling  bird; 
A  moment  fled — it  passed:    I  seek  in  vain 
For  that  forgotten  word." 

In  the  last  notes  the  voice  rose  in  passionate  pain,  and 
died  away  into  an  aching  silence. 
129 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

She  leaned  her  arms  on  the  piano  in  front  of  her  and 
laid  her  forehead  on  them. 

"When  will  it  all  end — what  will  become  of  me!"  she 
cried  in  pain  that  strangled  her  heart.  "I  am  so  bad — 
so  bad.  I  was  doomed  from  the  beginning.  I  always 
felt  it  so — always,  even  when  things  were  brightest.  I 
am  the  child  of  black  Destiny.  For  me  —  there  is 
nothing,  nothing,  for  me.  The  straight  path  was  before 
me,  and  I  would  not  walk  in  it." 

With  a  gesture  of  despair,  and  a  sudden  faintness,  she 
got  up  and  went  over  to  the  tray  of  spirits  and  liqueurs 
which  had  been  brought  in  with  the  coffee.  Pouring  out 
a  liqueur-glass  of  brandy,  she  was  about  to  drink  it,  when 
her  ear  became  attracted  by  a  noise  without,  a  curious 
stumbling,  shuffling  sound.  She  put  down  the  glass,  went 
to  the  door  that  opened  into  the  hall,  and  looked  out  and 
down.  One  light  was  still  burning  below,  and  she  could 
see  distinctly.  A  man  was  clumsily,  heavily,  ascending 
the  staircase,  holding  on  to  the  balustrade.  He  was  sing- 
ing to  himself,  breaking  into  the  maudlin  harmony  with 
an  occasional  laugh — 

"For  this  is  the  way  we  do  it  on  the  veld, 

When  the  band  begins  to  play; 

With  one  bottle  on  the  table  and  one  below  the  belt, 
When  the  band  begins  to  play — " 

It  was  Rudyard,  and  he  was  drunk — almost  helplessly 
drunk. 

A  cry  of  pain  rose  to  her  lips,  but  her  trembling  hand 
stopped  it.  With  a  shudder  she  turned  back  to  her  sitting- 
room.  Throwing  herself  on  the  divan  where  she  had  sat 
with  Ian  Stafford,  she  buried  her  face  in  her  arms.  The 
hours  went  by. 


CHAPTER   XI 

IN   WALES,    WHERE   JIGGER   PLAYS   HIS   PART 

"  DEALLY,  the  unnecessary  violence  with  which  peo- 

r\  pie  take  their  own  lives,  or  the  lives  of  others,  is 
amazing.  They  did  it  better  in  olden  days  in  Italy  and 
the  East.  No  waste  or  anything — all  scientifically 
measured." 

With  a  confident  and  satisfied  smile  Mr.  Mappin,  the 
celebrated  surgeon,  looked  round  the  little  group  of  which 
he  was  the  centre  at  Glencader,  Rudyard  Byng's  castle 
in  Wales. 

Rudyard  blinked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  ironical 
amusement,  then  remarked:  "When  you  want  to  die, 
does  it  matter  much  whether  you  kill  yourself  with  a 
bludgeon  or  a  pin,  take  gas  from  a  tap  or  cyanide  of 
potassium,  jump  in  front  of  a  railway  train  or  use  the 
revolting  razor?  You  are  dead  neither  less  nor  more, 
and  the  shock  to  the  world  is  the  same.  It's  only  the 
housemaid  or  the  undertaker  that  notices  any  difference. 
I  knew  a  man  at  Vleifontein  who  killed  himself  by  jump- 
ing into  the  machinery  of  a  mill.  It  gave  a  lot  of  trouble 
to  all  concerned.  That ' was  what  he  wanted — to  end  his 
own  life  and  exasperate  the  foreman." 

"Rudyard,  what  a  horrible  tale!"  exclaimed  his  wife, 
turning  again  to  the  surgeon,  eagerly.  "It  is  most  in- 
teresting, and  I  see  what  you  mean.  It  is,  that  if  we  only 
really  knew,  we  could  take  our  own  lives  or  other  people's 
with  such  ease  and  skill  that  it  would  be  hard  to  detect  it?" 

The  surgeon  nodded.  "Exactly,  Mrs.  Byng.  I  don't 
say  that  the  expert  couldn't  find  what  the  cause  of  death 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

was,  if  suspicion  was  aroused;  but  it  could  be  managed 
so  that  'heart  failure'  or  some  such  silly  verdict  would 
be  given,  because  there  was  no  sign  of  violence,  or  of  in- 
jury artificially  inflicted." 

"It  is  fortunate  the  world  doesn't  know  these  ways  to 
euthanasia,"  interposed  Stafford.  "I  fancy  that  murders 
would  be  more  numerous  than  suicides,  however.  Suicide 
enthusiasts  would  still  pursue  their  melodramatic  in- 
dulgences— disfiguring  themselves  unnecessarily." 

Adrian  Fellowes,  the  amiable,  ever-present  secretary 
and  "chamberlain"  of  Rudyard's  household,  as  Jasmine 
teasingly  called  him,  whose  handsome,  unintellectual  face 
had  lighted  with  amusement  at  the  conversation,  now 
interposed.  "Couldn't  you  give  us  some  idea  how  it  can 
be  done,  this  smooth  passage  of  the  Styx?"  he  asked. 
"We'll  promise  not  to  use  it." 

The  surgeon  looked  round  the  little  group  reflectively. 
His  eyes  passed  from  Adrian  to  Jasmine,  who  stood  beside 
him,  to  Byng,  and  to  Ian  Stafford,  and  stimulated  by  their 
interest,  he  gave  a  pleased  smile  of  gratified  vanity.  He 
was  young,  and  had  only  within  the  past  three  years  got 
to  the  top  of  the  tree  at  a  bound,  by  a  certain  successful 
operation  in  royal  circles. 

Drawing  out  of  his  pocket  a  small  case,  he  took  from 
it  a  needle  and  held  it  up.  "Now  that  doesn't  look  very 
dangerous,  does  it?"  he  asked.  "Yet  a  firm  pressure  of 
its  point  could  take  a  life,  and  there  would  be  little  pos- 
sibility of  finding  how  the  ghastly  trick  was  done  except 
by  the  aroused  expert." 

"If  you  will  allow  me,"  he  said,  taking  Jasmine's  hand 
and  poising  the  needle  above  her  palm.  "Now,  one  tiny 
thrust  of  this  steel  point,  which  has  been  dipped  in  a  cer- 
tain acid,  would  kill  Mrs.  Byng  as  surely  as  though  she 
had  been  shot  through  the  heart.  Yet  it  would  leave 
scarcely  the  faintest  sign.  No  blood,  no  wound,  just  a 
tiny  pin-prick,  as  it  were;  and  who  would  be  the  wiser? 
Imagine  an  average  coroner's  jury  and  the  average  exami- 
132 


IN   WALES 

nation  of  the  village  doctor,  who  would  die  rather  than 
expose  his  ignorance,  and  therefore  gives  'heart  failure' 
as  the  cause  of  death." 

Jasmine  withdrew  her  hand  with  a  shudder.  "Please, 
I  don't  like  being  so  near  the  point,"  she  said. 

"Woman-like,"  interjected  Byng  ironically. 

"How  does  it  happen  you  carry  this  murdering  asp 
about  with  you,  Mr.  Mappin?"  asked  Stafford. 

The  surgeon  smiled.  "For  an  experiment  to-morrow. 
Don't  start.  I  have  a  favorite  collie  which  must  die.  I 
am  testing  the  poison  with  the  minimum.  If  it  kills  the 
dog  it  will  kill  two  men." 

He  was  about  to  put  the  needle  back  into  the  case  when 
Adrian  Fellowes  held  out  a  hand  for  it.  "Let  me  look  at 
it,"  he  said.  Turning  the  needle  over  in  his  palm,  he 
examined  it  carefully.  "So  near  and  yet  so  far,"  he  re- 
marked. "There  are  a  good  many  people  who  would 
pay  a  high  price  for  the  little  risk  and  the  dead  certainty. 
You  wouldn't,  perhaps,  tell  us  what  the  poison  is,  Mr. 
Mappin?  We  are  all  very  reliable  people  here,  who  have 
no  enemies,  and  who  want  to  keep  their  friends  alive. 
We  should  then  be  a  little  syndicate  of  five,  holding  a 
great  secret,  and  saving  numberless  lives  every  day  by 
not  giving  the  thing  away.  We  should  all  be  entitled 
to  monuments  in  Parliament  Square." 

The  surgeon  restored  the  needle  to  the  case.  "  I  think 
one  monument  will  be  sufficient,"  he  said.  "  Immortality 
by  syndicate  is  too  modern,  and  this  is  an  ancient  art." 
He  tapped  the  case.  "Turkey  and  the  Mongol  lands  have 
kept  the  old  cult  going.  In  England,  it's  only  for  the 
dog!"  He  laughed  freely  but  noiselessly  at  his  own  joke. 

This  talk  had  followed  the  news  brought  by  Krool  to 
the  Baas,  that  the  sub-manager  of  the  great  mine,  whose 
chimneys  could  be  seen  from  the  hill  behind  the  house, 
had  thrown  himself  down  the  shaft  and  been  smashed  to 
a  pulp.  None  of  them  except  Byng  had  known  him,  and 
the  dark  news  had  brought  no  personal  shock. 
133 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

They  had  all  gathered  in  the  library,  after  paying  an 
afternoon  visit  to  Jigger,  who  had  been  brought  down  from 
London  in  a  special  carriage,  and  was  housed  near  the 
servants'  quarters  with  a  nurse.  On  the  night  of  Jigger's 
accident  Ian  Stafford  on  his  way  from  Jasmine's  house 
had  caught  Mr.  Mappin,  and  the  surgeon  had  operated 
at  once,  saving  the  lad's  life.  As  it  was  necessary  to  move 
him  in  any  case,  it  was  almost  as  easy,  and  no  more  dan- 
gerousj  to  bring  him  to  Glencader  than  to  take  him  to  a 
London  hospital. 

Under  the  surgeon's  instructions  Jasmine  had  arranged 
it  all,  and  Jigger  had  travelled  like  royalty  from  Paddington 
into  Wales,  and  there  had  captured  the  household,  as  he 
had  captured  Stafford  at  breakfast  in  St.  James's  Street. 

Thinking  that  perhaps  this  was  only  a  whim  of  Jas- 
mine's, and  merely  done  because  it  gave  a  new  interest 
to  a  restless  temperament,  Stafford  had  at  first  rejected 
the  proposal.  When,  however,  the  surgeon  said  that 
if  the  journey  was  successfully  made,  the  after-results 
would  be  all  to  the  good,  Stafford  had  assented,  and  had 
allowed  himself  to  be  included  in  the  house-party  at 
Glencader. 

It  was  a  triumph  for  Jasmine,  for  otherwise  Stafford 
would  not  have  gone.  Whether  she  would  have  insisted 
on  Jigger  going  to  Glencader  if  it  had  not  meant  that 
Ian  would  go  also,  it  would  be  hard  to  say.  Her  motives 
were  not  unmixed,  though  there  had  been  a  real  impulse 
to  do  all  she  could.  In  any  case,  she  had  lessened  the 
distance  between  Ian  and  herself,  and  that  gave  her  wil- 
ful mind  a  rather  painful  pleasure.  Also,  the  responsi- 
bility for  Jigger's  well-being,  together  with  her  duties  as 
hostess,  had  prevented  her  from  dwelling  on  that  scene  in 
the  silent  house  at  midnight  which  had  shocked  her  so — 
her  husband  reeling  up  the  staircase,  singing  a  ribald 
song. 

The  fullest  significance  of  this  incident  had  not  yet 
come  home  to  her.  She  had  fought  against  dwelling  on 
134 


IN    WALES 

it,  and  she  was  glad  that  every  moment  since  they  had 
come  to  Glencader  had  been  full;  that  Rudyard  had  been 
much  away  with  the  shooters,  and  occupied  in  trying  to 
settle  a  struggle  between  the  miners  and  the  proprietors 
of  the  mine  itself,  of  whom  he  was  one.  Still,  things  that 
Rudyard  had  said  before  he  left  the  house  to  dine  with 
Wallstein,  leaving  her  with  Stafford,  persistently  re- 
curred to  her  mind. 

"What's  the  matter?"  had  been  Rudyard's  troubled 
cry.  "We've  got  everything — everything,  and  yet — !" 
Her  eyes  were  not  opened.  She  had  had  a  shock,  but  it 
had  not  stirred  the  inner,  smothered  life;  there  had  been 
no  real  revelation.  She  was  agitated  and  disturbed — no 
more.  She  did  not  see  that  the  man  she  had  married  to 
love  and  to  cherish  was  slowly  changing — was  the  change 
only  a  slow  one  now? — before  her  eyes;  losing  that  brave 
freshness  which  had  so  appealed  to  London  when  he  first 
came  back  to  civilization.  Something  had  been  sub- 
tracted from  his  personality  which  left  it  poorer,  some- 
thing had  been  added  which  made  it  less  appealing. 
Something  had  given  way  in  him.  There  had  been  a 
subsidence  of  moral  energy,  and  force  had  inwardly  de- 
clined, though  to  all  outward  seeming  he  had  played  a 
powerful  and  notable  part  in  the  history  of  the  last  three 
years,  gaining  influence  in  many  directions,  without  suf- 
fering excessive  notoriety. 

On  the  day  Rudyard  married  Jasmine  he  would  have  cut 
off  his  hand  rather  than  imagine  that  he  would  enter  his 
wife's  room  helpless  from  drink  and  singing  a  song  which 
belonged  to  loose  nights  on  the  Limpopo  and  the  Vaal. 

As  the  little  group  drew  back,  their  curiosity  satisfied, 
Mr.  Mappin,  putting  the  case  carefully  into  his  pocket 
again,  said  to  Jasmine: 

"The  boy  is  going  on  so  well  that  I  am  not  needed 
longer.  Mr.  Wharton,  my  locum  tenens,  will  give  him 
every  care." 

10  135 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"When  did  you  think  of  going?"  Jasmine  asked  him, 
as  they  all  moved  on  towards  the  hall,  where  the  other 
guests  were  assembled. 

"To-morrow  morning  early,  if  I  may.  No  night  travel 
for  me,  if  I  can  help  it." 

"I  am  glad  you  are  not  going  to-night,"  she  an- 
swered, graciously.  "Al'mah  is  arriving  this  afternoon, 
and  she  sings  for  us  this  evening.  Is  it  not  thrilling?" 

There  was  a  general  murmur  of  pleasure,  vaguely  joined 
by  Adrian  Fellowes,  who  glanced  quickly  round  the  little 
group,  and  met  an  enigmatical  glance  from  Byng's  eye. 
Byng  was  remembering  what  Barry  Whalen  had  told  him 
three  years  ago,  and  he  wondered  if  Jasmine  was  cog- 
nizant of  it  all.  He  thought  not;  for  otherwise  she  would 
scarcely  bring  Al'mah  to  Glencader  and  play  Fellowes' 
game  for  him. 

Jasmine,  in  fact,  had  not  heard.  Days  before  she  had 
wondered  that  Adrian  had  tried  to  discourage  her  invita- 
tion to  Al'mah.  While  it  was  an  invitation,  it  was  also 
an  engagement,  on  terms  which  would  have  been  adequate 
for  Patti  in  her  best  days.  It  would,  if  repeated  a  few 
times,  reimburse  Al'mah  for  the  sums  she  had  placed  in 
Byng's  hands  at  the  time  of  the  Raid,  and  also,  later  still, 
to  buy  the  life  of  her  husband  from  Oom  Paul.  It  had 
been  insufficient,  not  because  of  the  value  of  the  article 
for  sale,  but  because  of  the  rapacity  of  the  vender.  She 
had  paid  half  the  cruel  balance  demanded;  Byng  and  his 
friends  had  paid  the  rest  without  her  knowledge;  and 
her  husband  had  been  set  free. 

Byng  had  only  seen  Al'mah  twice  since  the  day  when 
she  first  came  to  his  rooms,  and  not  at  all  during  the  past 
two  years,  save  at  the  opera,  where  she  tightened  the 
cords  of  captivity  to  her  gifts  around  her  admirers. 
Al'mah  had  never  met  Mrs.  Byng  since  the  day  after  that 
first  production  of  "  Manassa,"  when  Rudyard  rescued  her, 
though  she  had  seen  her  at  the  opera  again  and  again. 
She  cared  nothing  for  society  or  for  social  patronage  or 
136 


IN   WALES 

approval,  and  the  life  that  Jasmine  led  had  no  charms 
for  her.  The  only  interest  she  had  in  it  was  that  it  suited 
Adrian  from  every  standpoint.  He  loved  the  splendid 
social  environment  of  which  Jasmine  was  the  centre,  and 
his  services  were  well  rewarded. 

When  she  received  Jasmine's  proposal  to  sing  at  Glen- 
cader  she  had  hesitated  to  accept  it,  for  society  had  no 
charms  for  her;  but  at  length  three  considerations  in- 
duced her  to  do  so.  She  wanted  to  see  Rudyard  Byng, 
for  South.  Africa  and  its  shadow  was  ever  present  with 
her;  and  she  dreaded  she  knew  not  what.  Blantyre  was 
still  her  husband,  and  he  might  return — and  return  still 
less  a  man  than  when  he  deserted  her  those  sad  long 
years  ago.  Also,  she  wanted  to  see  Jigger,  because  of  his 
sister  Lou,  whose  friendless  beauty,  so  primitively  set, 
whose  transparent  honesty  appealed  to  her  quick,  gener- 
ous impulses.  Last  of  all  she  wanted  to  see  Adrian  in  the 
surroundings  and  influences  where  his  days  had  been  con- 
stantly spent  during  the  past  three  years. 

Never  before  had  she  had  the  curiosity  to  do  so.  Adrian 
had,  however,  deftly  but  clearly  tried  to  dissuade  her  from 
coming  to  Glencader,  and  his  reasons  were  so  new  and 
unconvincing  that,  for  the  first  time, — she  had  a  nature 
of  strange  trustfulness  once  her  faith  was  given — a  vague 
suspicion  concerning  Adrian  perplexed  and  troubled  her. 
His  letter  had  arrived  some  hours  after  Jasmine's,  and 
then  her  answer  was  immediate — she  would  accept. 
Adrian  heard  of  the  acceptance  first  through  Jasmine, 
to  whom  he  had  spoken  of  his  long  "acquaintance"  with 
the  great  singer. 

From  Byng's  look,  as  they  moved  towards  the  hall, 
Adrian  gathered  that  rumour  had  reached  a  quarter  where 
he  had  much  at  stake;  but  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that 
this  would  be  to  his  disadvantage.  Byng  was  a  man  of 
the  world.  Besides,  he  had  his  own  reasons  for  feeling 
no  particular  fear  where  Byng  was  concerned.  His  glance 
ran  from  Byng's  face  to  that  of  Jasmine;  but,  though  her 
137 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

eyes  met  his,  there  was  nothing  behind  her  glance  which 
had  to  do  with  Al'mah. 

In  the  great  hall  whose  windows  looked  out  on  a  lovely, 
sunny  valley  still  as  green  as  summer,  the  rest  of  the  house- 
party  were  gathered,  and  Jigger's  visitors  were  at  once 
surrounded. 

Among  the  visitors  were  Alice,  Countess  of  Tynemouth, 
also  the  Slavonian  ambassador,  whose  extremely  pale 
face,  stooping  shoulders,  and  bald  head  with  the  hair 
carefully  brushed  over  from  each  side  in  a  vain  attempt 
to  cover  the  baldness,  made  him  seem  older  than  he  really 
was.  Count  Landrassy  had  lived  his  life  in  many  capitals 
up  to  the  limit  of  his  vitality,  and  was  still  covetous  of 
notice  from  the  sex  who  had,  in  a  checkered  career,  given 
him  much  pleasure,  and  had  provided  him  with  far  more 
anxiety.  But  he  was  almost  uncannily  able  and  astute, 
as  every  man  found  who  entered  the  arena  of  diplomacy  to 
treat  with  him  or  circumvent  him.  Suavity,  with  an 
attendant  mordant  wit,  and  a  mastery  of  tactics  un- 
familiar to  the  minds  and  capacities  of  Englishmen,  made 
him  a  great  factor  in  the  wide  world  of  haute  politique; 
but  it  also  drew  upon  him  a  wealth  of  secret  hatred  and 
outward  attention.  His  follies  were  lashed  by  the  tongues 
of  virtue  and  of  slander;  but  his  abilities  gave  him  a  com- 
manding place  in  the  arena  of  international  politics. 

As  Byng  and  his  party  approached,  the  eyes  of  the 
ambassador  and  of  Lady  Tynemouth  were  directed  tow- 
ards Ian  Stafford.  The  glance  of  the  former  was  ironical 
and  a  little  sardonic.  He  had  lately  been  deeply  engaged 
in  checkmating  the  singularly  skilful  and  cleverly  devised 
negotiations  by  which  England  was  to  gain  a  powerful 
advantage  in  Europe,  the  full  significance  of  which  even 
he  had  not  yet  pierced.  This  he  knew,  but  what  he 
apprehended  with  the  instinct  of  an  almost  scientific 
sense  became  unduly  important  to  his  mind.  The  author 
of  the  profoundly  planned  international  scheme  was  this 
138 


IN   WALES 

young  man,  who  had  already  made  the  chancelleries  of 
Europe  sit  up  and  look  about  them  in  dismay;  for  its 
activities  were  like  those  of  underground  wires ;  and  every 
area  of  diplomacy,  the  nearest,  the  most  remote,  was  mined 
and  primed,  so  that  each  embassy  played  its  part  with 
almost  startling  effect.  Tibet  and  Persia  were  not  too 
far,  and  France  was  not  too  near  to  prevent  the  incalcu- 
lably smooth  working  of  a  striking  and  far-reaching 
political  move.  It  was  the  kind  of  thing  that  England's 
Prime  Minister,  with  his  extraordinary  frankness,  with 
his  equally  extraordinary  secretiveness,  insight  and 
immobility,  delighted  in;  and  Slavonia  and  its  ambassa- 
dor knew,  as  an  American  high  in  place  had  colloquially 
said,  "that  they  were  up  against  a  proposition  which 
would  take  some  moving." 

The  scheme  had  taken  some  moving.  But  it  had  not 
yet  succeeded;  and  if  M.  Mennaval,  the  ambassador  of 
Moravia,  influenced  by  Count  Landrassy,  pursued  his 
present  tactics  on  behalf  of  his  government,  Ian  Stafford's 
coup  would  never  be  made,  and  he  would  have  to  rise  to 
fame  in  diplomacy  by  slower  processes.  It  was  the  daily 
business  of  the  Slavonian  ambassador  to  see  that  M. 
Mennaval  of  Moravia  was  not  captured  either  by  tactics, 
by  smooth  words,  or  all  those  arts  which  lay  beneath  the 
outward  simplicity  of  Ian  Stafford  and  of  those  who 
worked  with  him. 

With  England  on  the  verge  of  war,  the  outcome  of  the 
negotiations  was  a  matter  of  vital  importance.  It  might 
mean  the  very  question  of  England's  existence  as  an  em- 
pire. England  in  a  conflict  with  South  Africa,  the  hour 
long  desired  by  more  than  one  country,  in  which  she  would 
be  occupied  to  the  limit  of  her  capacity,  with  resources 
taxed  to  the  utmost,  army  inadequate,  and  military  affairs 
in  confusion,  would  come,  and  with  it  the  opportunity 
to  bring  the  Titan  to  her  knees.  This  diplomatic  scheme 
of  Ian  Stafford,  however,  would  prevent  the  worst  in  any 
case,  and  even  in  the  disasters  of  war,  would  be  working 
139 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

out  advantages  which,  after  the  war  was  done,  would 
give  England  many  friends  and  fewer  enemies,  give  her 
treaties  and  new  territory,  and  set  her  higher  than  she 
was  now  by  a  political  metre. 

Count  Landrassy  had  thought  at  first,  when  Ian  Staf- 
ford came  to  Glencader,  that  this  meeting  had  been  pur- 
posely arranged;  but  through  Byng's  frankness  and  in- 
genuous explanations  he  saw  that  he  was  mistaken.  The 
two  subtle  and  combating  diplomats  had  not  yet  conversed 
save  in  a  general  way  by  the  smoking-room  fire. 

Lady  Tynemouth's  eyes  fell  on  Ian  with  a  different 
meaning.  His  coming  to  Glencader  had  been  a  surprise 
to  her.  He  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  visit  her  in 
another  week,  and  she  had  only  come  to  know  later  of 
the  chance  meeting  of  Ian  and  Jasmine  in  London,  and 
the  subsequent  accident  to  Jigger  which  had  brought  Ian 
down  to  Wales.  The  man  who  had  saved  her  life  on  her 
wedding  journey,  and  whose  walls  were  still  garish  with 
the  red  parasol  which  had  nearly  been  her  death,  had  a 
place  quite  his  own  in  her  consideration.  She  had,  of 
course,  known  of  his  old  infatuation  for  Jasmine,  though 
she  did  not  know  all:  and  she  knew  also  that  he  had  put 
Jasmine  out  of  his  life  completely  when  she  married  Byng; 
which  was  not  a  source  of  regret  to  her.  She  had  written 
him  about  Jasmine,  again  and  again, — of  what  she  did 
and  what  the  world  said — and  his  replies  had  been  as 
casual  and  as  careless  as  the  most  jealous  woman  could 
desire;  though  she  was  not  consciously  jealous,  and,  of 
course,  had  no  right  to  be. 

She  saw  no  harm  in  having  a  man  as  a  friend  on  a  basis 
of  intimacy  which  drew  the  line  at  any  possibility  of 
divorce-court  proceedings.  Inside  this  line  she  frankly 
insisted  on  latitude,  and  Tynemouth  gave  it  to  her  with- 
out thought  or  anxiety.  He  was  too  fond  of  outdoor  life, 
of  racing  and  hunting  and  shooting  and  polo  and  travel, 
to  have  his  eye  unnerved  by  any  such  foolishness  as 
jealousy. 

140 


IN   WALES 

"Play  the  game — play  the  game,  Alice,  and  so  will  I, 
and  the  rest  of  the  world  be  hanged!"  was  what  Tyne- 
mouth  had  said  to  his  wife;  and  it  would  not  have  oc- 
curred to  him  to  suspect  Stafford,  or  to  read  one  of  his 
letters  to  Lady  Tynemouth.  He  had  no  literary  gifts; 
in  truth,  he  had  no  "culture,"  and  he  looked  upon  his 
wife's  and  Stafford's  interest  in  literature  and  art  as  a 
game  of  mystery  he  had  never  learned.  Inconsequent 
he  thought  it  in  his  secret  mind,  but  played  by  nice, 
clever,  possible,  "livable"  people;  and,  therefore,  not  to 
be  pooh-poohed  openly  or  kicked  out  of  the  way.  Be- 
sides, it  "gave  Alice  something  to  do,  and  prevented  her 
from  being  lonely — and  all  that  kind  of  thing." 

Thus  it  was  that  Lady  Tynemouth,  who  had  played 
the  game  all  round  according  to  her  lights,  and  thought 
no  harm  of  what  she  did,  or  of  her  weakness  for  Ian  Staf- 
ford— of  her  open  and  rather  gushing  friendship  for  him 
— had  an  almost  honest  dislike  to  seeing  him  brought  into 
close  relations  again  with  the  woman  who  had  dishonour- 
ably treated  him.  Perhaps  she  wanted  his  friendship 
wholly  for  herself;  but  that  selfish  consideration  did  not 
overshadow  the  feeling  that  Jasmine  had  cheated  at  cards, 
as  it  were;  and  that  Ian  ought  not  to  be  compelled  to 
play  with  her  again. 

"But  men,  even  the  strongest,  are  so  weak,"  she  had 
said  to  Tynemouth  concerning  it,  and  he  had  said  in 
reply,  "And  the  weakest  are  so  strong — sometimes." 

At  which  she  had  pulled  his  shoulder,  and  had  said  with 
a  delighted  laugh,  "Tynie,  if  you  say  clever  things  like 
that  I'll  fall  in  love  with  you." 

To  which  he  had  replied:  "Now,  don't  take  advantage 
of  a  moment's  aberration,  Alice;  and  for  Heaven's  sake 
don't  fall  in  love  wiv  me"  (he  made  a  v  of  a  th,  like  Jig- 
ger). "I  couldn't  go  to  Uganda  if  you  did." 

To  which  she  had  responded,  "Dear  me,  are  you  going 
to  Uganda?"  and  was  told  with  a  nod  that  next  month 
he  would  be  gone. 

141 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

This  conversation  had  occurred  on  the  day  of  their 
arrival  at  Glencader;  and  henceforth  Alice  had  forcibly 
monopolized  Stafford  whenever  and  wherever  possible. 
So  far,  it  had  not  been  difficult,  because  Jasmine  had,  not 
ostentatiously,  avoided  being  often  with  Stafford.  It 
seemed  to  Jasmine  that  she  must  not  see  much  of  him 
alone.  Still  there  was  some  new  cause  to  provoke  his 
interest  and  draw  him  to  herself.  The  Jigger  episode  had 
done  much,  had  altered  the  latitudes  of  their  association, 
but  the  perihelion  of  their  natures  was  still  far  off;  and 
she  was  apprehensive,  watchful,  and  anxious. 

This  afternoon,  however,  she  felt  that  she  must  talk 
with  him.  Waiting  and  watching  were  a  new  discipline 
for  her,  and  she  was  not  yet  the  child  of  self-cfenial. 
Fate,  if  there  be  such  a  thing,  favoured  her,  however,  for 
as  they  drew  near  to  the  fireplace  where  the  ambassador 
and  Alice  Tynemouth  and  her  husband  stood,  Krool 
entered,  came  forward  to  Byng,  and  spoke  in  a  low  tone 
to  him. 

A  minute  afterward,  Byng  said  to  them  all :  "Well,  I'm 
sorry,  but  I'm  afraid  we  can't  carry  out  our  plans  for  the 
afternoon.  There's  trouble  again  at  the  mine,  and  I  am 
needed,  or  they  think  I  am.  So  I  must  go  there — and 
alone,  I'm  sorry  to  say;  not  with  you  all,  as  I  had  hoped. 
Jasmine,  you  must  plan  the  afternoon.  The  carriages 
are  ready.  There's  the  Glen  o'  Smiling,  well  worth  seeing, 
and  the  Murderer's  Leap,  and  Lover's  Land — something 
for  all  tastes,"  he  added,  with  a  dry  note  to  his  voice. 

"Take  care  of  yourself,  Ruddy  man,"  Jasmine  said,  as 
he  left  them  hurriedly,  with  an  affectionate  pinch  of  her 
arm.  "I  don't  like  these  mining  troubles,"  she  added  to 
the  others,  and  proceeded  to  arrange  the  afternoon. 

She  did  it  so  deftly  that  she  and  Ian  and  Adrian  Fel- 
lowes  were  the  only  ones  left  behind  out  of  a  party  of 
twelve.  She  had  found  it  impossible  to  go  on  any  of  the 
excursions,  because  she  must  stay  and  welcome  Al'mah. 
She  meant  to  drive  to  the  station  herself,  she  sai4,  Adrian 


IN    WALES 

stayed  behind  because  he  must  superintend  the  arrange- 
ments of  the  ball-room  for  the  evening,  or  so  he  said;  and 
Ian  Stafford  stayed  because  he  had  letters  to  write — 
ostensibly;  for  he  actually  meant  to  go  and  sit  with 
Jigger,  and  to  send  a  code  message  to  the  Prime  Minister, 
from  whom  he  had  had  inquiries  that  morning. 

When  the  others  had  gone,  the  three  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment silent  in  the  hall,  then  Adrian  said  to  Jasmine, 
"Will  you  give  me  a  moment  in  the  ball-room  about  those 
arrangements  ?' ' 

Jasmine  glanced  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  at  Ian. 
He  showed  no  sign  that  he  wanted  her  to  remain.  A 
shadow  crossed  her  face,  but  she  laughingly  asked  him  if 
he  would  come  also. 

"If  you  don't  mind — !"  he  said,  shaking  his  head  in 
negation;  but  he  walked  with  them  part  of  the  way  to 
the  ball-room,  and  left  them  at  the  corridor  leading  to 
his  own  little  sitting-room. 

A  few  minutes  later,  as  Jasmine  stood  alone  at  a  win- 
dow looking  down  into  the  great  stone  quadrangle,  she 
saw  him  crossing  toward  the  servants'  quarters. 

"He  is  going  to  Jigger,"  she  said,  her  heart  beating 
faster.  "Oh,  but  he  is  'the  best  ever,'"  she  added,  re- 
peating Lou's  words — "the  best  ever!" 

Her  eye  brightened  with  intention.  She  ran  down 
the  corridor,  and  presently  made  her  way  to  the  house- 
keeper's room. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   KEY   IN  THE   LOCK 

A  QUARTER  of  an  hour  later  Jasmine  softly  opened 
/\  the  door  of  the  room  where  Jigger  lay,  and  looked  in. 
The  nurse  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  listening  to  talk 
between  Jigger  and  Ian,  the  like  of  which  she  had  never 
heard.  She  was  smiling,  for  Jigger  was  original,  to  say 
the  least  of  it,  and  he  had  a  strange,  innocent,  yet  wise 
philosophy.  Ian  sat  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  hands 
clasped,  leaning  towards  the  gallant  little  sufferer,  talking 
like  a  boy  to  a  boy,  and  getting  revelations  of  life  of  which 
he  had  never  even  dreamed. 

•  Jasmine  entered  with  a  little  tray  in  one  hand,  bearing 
a  bowl  of  delicate  broth,  while  under  an  arm  was  a  puzzle- 
box,  which  was  one  of  the  relics  of  a  certain  house-party 
in  which  a  great  many  smart  people  played  at  the  simple 
life,  and  sought  to  find  a  new  sensation  in  making  believe 
they  were  the  village  rector's  brood  of  innocents.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  gown  almost  as  simple  in  make  as  that 
of  the  nurse,  but  of  exquisite  material — the  soft  green 
velvet  which  she  had  worn  when  she  met  Ian  in  the  sweet- 
shop in  Regent  Street.  Her  hair  was  a  perfect  gold, 
wavy  and  glistening  and  prettily  fine,  and  her  eyes  were 
shining — so  blue,  so  deep,  so  alluring. 

The  boy  saw  her  first,  and  his  eyes  grew  bigger  with 
welcome  and  interest. 

"  It's  her — me  lydy,"  he  said  with  a  happy  gasp,  for  she 

seemed  to  him  like  a  being  from  another  sphere.     When 

she  came  near  him  the  faint,  delicious  perfume  exhaling 

from  her  garments  was  like  those  flower-gardens  and 

144 


THE    KEY    IN    THE    LOCK 

scented  fields  to  which  he  had  once  been  sent  for  a  holi- 
day by  some  philanthropic  society. 

Ian  rose  as  the  nurse  came  forward  quickly  to  relieve 
Jasmine  of  the  tray  and  the  box.  His  first  glance 
was  enigmatical — almost  suspicious — then,  as  he  saw 
the  radiance  in  her  face  and  the  burden  she  carried,  a 
new  light  came  into  his  eyes.  In  this  episode  of  Jigger 
she  had  shown  all  that  gentle  charm,  sympathy,  and 
human  feeling  which  he  had -once  believed  belonged  so 
much  to  her.  It  seemed  to  him  in  the  old  days  that 
at  heart  she  was  simple,  generous,  and  capable  of  the 
best  feelings  of  woman,  and  of  living  up  to  them;  and 
there  began  to  grow  at  the  back  of  his  mind  now  the 
thought  that  she  had  been  carried  away  by  a  great 
temptation — the  glitter  and  show  of  power  and  all  that 
gold  can  buy,  and  a  large  circle  for  the  skirts  of  woman's 
pride  and  vanity.  If  she  had  married  him  instead  of 
Byng,  they  would  now  be  living  in  a  small  house  in  Cur- 
zon  Street,  or  some  such  fashionable  quarter,  with  just 
enough  to  enable  them  to  keep  their  end  up  with  people 
who  had  five  thousand  a  year — with  no  box  at  the  opera, 
or  house  in  the  country,  or  any  of  the  great  luxuries,  and 
with  a  thriving  nursery  which  would  be  a  promise  of  future 
expense — if  she  had  married  him!  ...  A  kinder,  gentler 
spirit  was  suddenly  awake  in  him,  and  he  did  not  despise 
her  quite  so  much.  On  her  part,  she  saw  him  coming 
nearer,  as,  standing  in  the  door  of  a  cottage  in  a  valley, 
one  sees  trailing  over  the  distant  hills,  with  the  light 
behind,  a  welcome  and  beloved  figure  with  face  turned 
towards  the  home  in  the  green  glade. 

A  smile  came  to  his  lips,  as  suspicion  stole  away  ashamed ; 
and  he  said:  "This  will  not  do.  Jigger  will  be  spoiled. 
We  shall  have  to  see  Mr.  Mappin  about  it." 

As  she  yielded  to  him  the  puzzle-box,  which  she  had 
refused  to  the  nurse,  she  said:  "And  pray  who  sets  the 
example?  I  am  a  very  imitative  person.  Besides,  I 
asked  Mr.  Mappin  about  the  broth,  so  it's  all  right;  and 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Jigger  will  want  the  puzzle-box  when  you  are  not  here," 
she  added,  quizzically. 

"Diversion  or  continuity?"  he  asked,  with  a  laugh,  as 
she  held  the  bowl  of  soup  to  Jigger's  lips.  At  this  point 
the  nurse  had  discreetly  left  the  room. 

"  Continuity,  of  course,"  she  replied.  "All  diplomatists 
are  puzzles,  some  without  solution." 

"Who  said  I  was  a  diplomatist?"  he  asked,  lightly. 

"Don't  think  that  I'm  guilty  of  the  slander,"  she  re- 
joined. "It  was  the  Moravian  ambassador  who  first 
suggested  that  what  you  were  by  profession  you  were  by 
nature." 

Jasmine  felt  Ian  hold  his  breath  for  a  moment,  then  he 
said  in  a  low  tone,  "  M.  Mennaval — you  know  him  well?" 

She  did  not  look  towards  him,  but  she  was  conscious 
that  he  was  eying  her  intently.  She  put  aside  the  bowl, 
and  began  to  adjust  Jigger's  pillow  with  deft  fingers,  while 
the  lad  watched  her  with  a  worship  worth  any  money  to 
one  attacked  by  ennui  and  stale  with  purchased  pleasures. 

"I  know  him  well — yes,  quite  well,"  she  replied.  "He 
comes  sometimes  of  an  afternoon,  and  if  he  had  more 
time — or  if  I  had — he  would  no  doubt  come  oftener.  But 
time  is  the  most  valuable  thing  I  have,  and  I  have  less  of 
it  than  anything  else." 

"A  diminishing  capital,  too,"  he  returned  with  a 
laugh;  while  his  mind  was  suddenly  alert  to  an  idea 
which  had  flown  into  his  vision,  though  its  full  significance 
did  not  possess  him  yet. 

"The  Moravian  ambassador  is  not  very  busy,"  he 
added  with  an  undertone  of  meaning. 

"Perhaps;  but  I  am,"  she  answered  with  like  meaning, 
and  looked  him  in  the  eyes,  steadily,  serenely,  determined- 
ly. All  at  once  there  had  opened  out  before  her  a  great 
possibility.  Both  from  the  Count  Landrassy  and  from 
the  Moravian  ambassador  she  had  had  hints  of  some  deep, 
international  scheme  of  which  Ian  Stafford  was  the 
engineer-in-chief ,  though  she  did  not  know  definitely  wfrat 
146 


THE    KEY    IN    THE    LOCK 

it  was.  Both  ambassadors  had  paid  their  court  to  her, 
each  in  a  different  way,  and  M.  Mennaval  would  have 
been  as  pertinacious  as  he  was  vain  and  somewhat  weak 
(albeit  secretive,  too,  with  the  feminine  instinct  so 
strong  in  him)  if  she  had  not  checked  him  at  all  points. 
From  what  Count  Landrassy  had  said,  it  would  appear 
that  Ian  Stafford's  future  hung  in  the  balance — depend- 
ent upon  the  success  of  his  great  diplomatic  scheme. 

Could  she  help  Ian?  Could  she  help  him?  Had  the 
time  come  when  she  could  pay  her  debt,  the  price  of  ran- 
som from  the  captivity  in  which  he  held  her  true  and 
secret  character?  It  had  been  vaguely  in  her  mind  be- 
fore; but  now,  standing  beside  Jigger's  bed,  with  the 
lad's  feverish  hand  in  hers,  there  spread  out  before  her 
a  vision  of  a  lien  lifted,  of  an  ugly  debt  redeemed,  of  free- 
dom from  this  man's  scorn.  If  she  could  do  some  great 
service  for  him,  would  not  that  wipe  out  the  unsettled 
claim?  If  she  could  help  to  give  him  success,  would  not 
that,  in  the  end,  be  more  to  him  than  herself?  For  she 
would  soon  fade,  the  dust  would  soon  gather  over  her 
perished  youth  and  beauty;  but  his  success  would  live 
on,  ever  freshening  in  his  sight,  rising  through  long  years 
to  a  great  height,  and  remaining  fixed  and  exalted.  With 
a  great  belief  she  believed  in  him  and  what  he  could  do. 
He  was  a  Sisyphus  who  could  and  would  roll  the  huge 
stone  to  the  top  of  the  hill — and  ever  with  easier  power. 

The  old  touch  of  romance  and  imagination  which  had 
been  the  governing  forces  of  her  grandfather's  life,  the 
passion  of  an  idea,  however  essentially  false  and  mere- 
tricious and  perilous  to  all  that  was  worth  while  keeping 
in  life,  set  her  pulses  beating  now.  As  a  child  her  pulses 
used  to  beat  so  when  she  had  planned  with  her  good-for- 
nothing  brother  some  small  escapade  looming  immense 
in  the  horizon  of  her  enjoyment.  She  had  ever  distorted 
or  inflamed  the  facts  of  life  by  an  overheated  fancy,  by 
the  spirit  of  romance,  by  a  gift — or  curse — of  imagination, 
which  had  given  her  also  dark  visions  of  a  miserable  end. 
147 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

of  a  clouded  and  piteous  close  to  her  brief  journey.  "I 
am  doomed — doomed,"  had  been  her  agonized  cry  that 
day  before  Ian  Stafford  went  away  three  years  ago,  and 
the  echo  of  that  cry  was  often  in  her  heart,  waking  and 
sleeping.  It  had  come  upon  her  the  night  when  Rudyard 
reeled,  intoxicated,  up  the  staircase.  She  had  the  penal- 
ties of  her  temperament  shadowing  her  footsteps  always, 
dimming  the  radiance  which  broke  forth  for  long  periods, 
and  made  her  so  rare  and  wonderful  a  figure  in  her  world. 
She  was  so  young,  and  so  exquisite,  that  Fate  seemed 
harsh  and  cruel  in  darkening  her  vision,  making  pitfalls 
for  her  feet. 

Could  she  help  him?  Had  her  moment  come  when  she 
could  force  him  to  smother  his  scorn  and  wait  at  her  door 
for  bounty?  She  would  make  the  effort  to  know. 

"But,  yes,  I  am  very  busy,"  she  repeated.  "I  have 
little  interest  in  Moravia — which  is  fortunate;  for  I  could 
not  find  the  time  to  study  it." 

"If  you  had  interest  in  Moravia,  you  would  find  the 
time  with  little  difficulty,"  he  answered,  lightly,  yet  think- 
ing ironically  that  he  himself  had  given  much  time  and 
study  to  Moravia,  and  so  far  had  not  got  much  return  out 
of  it.  Moravia  was  the  crux  of  his  diplomacy.  Every- 
thing depended  on  it;  but  Landrassy,  the  Slavonian  am- 
bassador, had  checkmated  him  at  every  move  towards  the 
final  victory. 

"It  is  not  a  study  I  would  undertake  con  amore"  she 
said,  smiling  down  at  Jigger,  who  watched  her  with  sharp 
yet  docile  eyes.  Then,  suddenly  turning  towards  him 
again,  she  said: 

"But  you  are  interested  in  Moravia — do  you  find  it 
worth  the  time?" 

"Did  Count  Landrassy  tell  you  that?"  he  asked. 

"And  also  the  ambassador  for  Moravia;  but  only 
in  the  vaguest  and  least  consequential  way,"  she  re- 
plied. 

She  regarded  him  steadfastly.  "  It  is  only  just  now — is 
148 


THE    KEY    IN    THE    LOCK 

it  a  kind  of  telepathy? — that  I  seem  to  get  a  message  from 
what  we  used  to  call  the  power-house,  that  you  are  deep- 
ly interested  in  Moravia  and  Slavonia.  Little  things 
which  have  been  said  seem  to  have  new  meaning  now, 
and  I  feel " — she  smiled  significantly — "that  I  am  standing 
on  the  brink  of  some  great  happening,  and  only  a  big 
secret,  like  a  cloud,  prevents  me  from  seeing  it,  realizing 
it.  Is  it  so?"  she  added,  in  a  low  voice. 

He  regarded  her  intently.  His  look  held  hers.  It  would 
seem  as  though  he  tried  to  read  the  depths  of  her  soul ;  as 
though  he  was  asking  if  what  had  once  proved  so  false 
could  in  the  end  prove  true ;  for  it  came  to  him  with  sudden 
force,  with  sure  conviction,  that  she  could  help  him  as  no 
one  else  could;  that  at  this  critical  moment,  when  he  was 
trembling  between  success  and  failure,  her  secret  influence 
might  be  the  one  reinforcement  necessary  to  conduct  him 
to  victory.  Greater  and  better  men  than  himself  had 
used  women  to  further  their  vast  purposes;  could  one 
despise  any  human  agency,  so  long  as  it  was  not  dishon- 
ourable, in  the  carrying  out  of  great  schemes? 

It  was  for  Britain  —  for  her  ultimate  good,  for  the 
honour  and  glory  of  the  Empire,  for  the  betterment  of  the 
position  of  all  men  of  his  race  in  all  the  world,  their  pres- 
tige, their  prosperity,  their  patriotism;  and  no  agency 
should  be  despised.  He  knew  so  well  what  powers  of 
intrigue  had  been  used  against  him,  by  the  embassy  of 
Slavonia  and  those  of  other  countries.  His  own  methods 
had  been  simple  and  direct;  only  the  scheme  itself  being 
intricate,  complicated,  and  reaching  further  than  any 
diplomatist,  except  his  own  Prime  Minister,  had  dreamed. 
If  carried,  it  would  recast  the  international  position  in 
the  Orient,  necessitating  new  adjustments  in  Europe, 
with  cession  of  territory  and  gifts  for  gifts  in  the  way  of 
commercial  treaties  and  the  settlement  of  outstanding 
difficulties. 

His  key,  if  it  could  be  made  to  turn  in  the  lock,  would 
open  the  door  to  possibilities  of  prodigious  consequence. 
149 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

He  had  been  three  years  at  work,  and  the  end  must  come 
soon.  The  crisis  was  near.  A  game  can  only  be  played 
for  a  given  time,  then  it  works  itself  out,  and  a  new  one 
must  take  its  place.  His  top  was  spinning  hard,  but  already 
the  force  of  the  gyration  was  failing,  and  he  must  presently 
make  his  exit  with  what  the  Prime  Minister  called  his 
Patent,  or  turn  the  key  in  the  lock  and  enter  upon  his 
kingdom.  In  three  months — in  two  months — in  one 
month — it  might  be  too  late,  for  war  was  coming;  and 
war  would  destroy  his  plans,  if  they  were  not  fulfilled  now. 
Everything  must  be  done  before  war  came,  or  be  forever 
abandoned. 

This  beautiful  being  before  him  could  help  him.  She  had 
brains,  she  was  skilful,  inventive,  supple,  ardent,  yet  intel- 
lectually discreet.  She  had  as  much  as  told  him  that  the 
ambassador  of  Moravia  had  paid  her  the  compliment  of 
admiring  her  with  some  ardour.  It  would  not  grieve  him 
to  see  her  make  a  fool  and  a  tool  of  the  impressionable 
yet  adroit  diplomatist,  whose  vanity  was  matched  by  his 
unreliability,  and  who  had  a  passion  for  philandering — 
unlike  Count  Landrassy,  who  had  no  inclination  to 
philander,  who  carried  his  citadels  by  direct  attack  in 
great  force.  Yes,  Jasmine  could  help  him,  and,  as  in  the 
dead  years  when  it  seemed  that  she  would  be  the  courier 
star  of  his  existence,  they  understood  each  other  with- 
out words. 

"It  is  so,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  low  voice,  his  eyes  still 
regarding  her  with  almost  painful  intensity. 

"Do  you  trust  me — now — again?"  she  asked,  a  tremor 
in  her  voice  and  her  small  hand  clasping  ever  and  ever 
tighter  the  fingers  of  the  lad,  whose  eyes  watched  her  with 
such  dog-like  adoration. 

A  mournful  smile  stole  to  his  lips — and  stayed.  "  Come 
where  we  can  be  quiet  and  I  will  tell  you  all,"  he  said. 
''  You  can  help  me,  maybe." 

"I  will  help  you,"  she  said,  firmly,  as  the  nurse  entered 
the  room  again  and,  approaching  the  bed,  said,  "I  think 


THE    KEY    IN    THE    LOCK 

he  ought  to  sleep  now  " ;  and  forthwith  proceeded  to  make 
Jigger  comfortable. 

When  Stafford  bade  Jigger  good-bye,  the  lad  said:  "I 
wish  I  could  'ear  the  singing  to-night,  y'r  gryce.  I  mean 
the  primmer  donner.  Lou  says  she's  a  fair  wonder." 

"We  will  open  your  window,"  Jasmine  said,  gently. 
"The  ball-room  is  just  across  the  quadrangle,  and  you 
will  be  able  to  hear  perfectly." 

"Thank  you,  me  lydy,"  he  answered,  gratefully,  and 
his  eyes  closed. 

"Come,"  said  Jasmine  to  Stafford.  "I  will  take  you 
where  we  can  talk  undisturbed." 

They  passed  out,  and  both  were  silent  as  they  threaded 
the  corridors  and  hallways;  but  in  Jasmine's  face  was  a 
light  of  exaltation  and  of  secret  triumph. 

"We  must  give  Jigger  a  good  start  in  life,"  she  said, 
softly,  as  they  entered  her  sitting-room.  Jigger  had 
broken  down  many  barriers  between  her  and  the  man  who, 
a  week  ago,  had  been  eternities  distant  from  her. 

"He  's  worth  a  lot  of  thought,"  Ian  answered,  as  the 
pleasant  room  enveloped  him,  and  they  seated  themselves 
on  a  big  couch  before  the  fire. 

Again  there  was  a  long  silence;  then,  not  looking  at 
her,  but  gazing  into  the  fire,  Ian  Stafford  slowly  unfolded 
the  wide  and  wonderful  enterprise  of  diplomacy  in  which 
his  genius  was  employed.  She  listened  with  strained  at- 
tention, but  without  moving.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his 
face,  and  once,  as  the  proposed  meaning  of  the  scheme  was 
made  clear  by  the  turn  of  one  illuminating  phrase,  she 
gave  a  low  exclamation  of  wonder  and  delight.  That 
was  all  until,  at  last,  turning  to  her  as  though  from  some 
vision  that  had  chained  him,  he  saw  the  glow  in  her  eyes, 
the  profound  interest,  which  was  like  the  passion  of  a 
spirit  moved  to  heroic  undertaking.  Once  again  it  was 
as  in  the  years  gone  by — he  trusted  her,  in  spite  of  himself; 
in  spite  of  himself  he  had  now  given  his  very  life  into  her 
hands,  was  making  her  privy  to  great  designs  which  be- 
ll 151 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

longed  to  the  inner  chambers  of  the  chancelleries  of 
Europe. 

Almost  timorously,  as  it  seemed,  she  put  out  her  hand 
and  touched  his  shoulder.  "It  is  wonderful — wonder- 
ful," she  said.  "I  can,  I  will  help  you.  Will  let  you  let 
me  win  back  your  trust — Ian?" 

"I  want  your  help,  Jasmine,"  he  replied,  and  stood 
up.  "  It  is  the  last  turn  of  the  wheel.  It  may  be  life  or 
death  to  me  professionally." 

"It  shall  be  life,"  she  said,  softly. 

He  turned  slowly  from  her  and  went  towards  the  door. 

"Shall  we  not  go  for  a  walk,"  she  intervened — "before 
I  drive  to  the  station  for  Al'mah?" 

He  nodded,  and  a  moment  afterward  they  were  passing 
along  the  corridors.  Suddenly,  as  they  passed  a  window, 
Ian  stopped.  "I  thought  Mr.  Mappin  went  with  the 
others  to  the  Glen?"  he  said. 

"He  did,"  was  the  reply. 

"Who  is  that  leaving  his  room?"  he  continued,  as  she 
followed  his  glance  across  the  quadrangle.  "Surely,  it's 
Fellowes,"  he  added. 

"Yes,  it  looked  like  Mr.  Fellowes,"  she  said,  with  a 
slight  frown  of  wonder. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"i  WILL  NOT  SING" 

"  T  WILL  not  sing — it's  no  use,  I  will  not."    Al'mah's 

1  eyes  were  vivid  with  anger,  and  her  lips,  so  much  the 
resort  of  humour,  were  set  in  determination.  Her  words 
came  with  low  vehemence. 

Adrian  Fellowes'  hand  nervously  appealed  to  her. 
His  voice  was  coaxing  and  gentle. 

"ATmah,  must  I  tell  Mrs.  Byng  that?"  he  asked. 
"There  are  a  hundred  people  in  the  ball-room.  Some 
of  them  have  driven  thirty  miles  to  hear  you.  Besides, 
you  are  bound  in  honour  to  keep  your  engagement." 

"  I  am  bound  to  keep  nothing  that  I  don't  wish  to  keep 
— you  understand!"  she  replied,  with  a  passionate  gesture. 
"I  am  free  to  do  what  I  please  with  my  voice  and  with 
myself.  I  will  leave  here  in  the  morning.  I  sang  before 
dinner.  That  pays  my  board  and  a  little  over , ' '  she  added, 
with  bitterness.  "I  prefer  to  be  a  paying  guest.  Mrs. 
Byng  shall  not  be  my  paying  hostess." 

Fellowes  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  his  lips  twitched 
with  excitement.  "I  don't  know  what  has  come  over 
you,  Almah,"  he  said  helplessly  and  with  an  anxiety  he 
could  not  disguise.  "You  can't  do  that  kind  of  thing. 
It  isn't  fair,  it  isn't  straight  business ;  from  a  social  stand- 
point, it  isn't  well-bred." 

"Well-bred!"  she  retorted  with  a  scornful  laugh  and  a 
look  of  angry  disdain.  "You  once  said  I  had  the  manners 
of  Madame  Sans  Ge"ne,  the  washer- woman — a  sickly  joke, 
it  was.  Are  you  going  to  be  my  guide  in  manners  ?  Does 
breeding  only  consist  in  having  clothes  made  in  Savile 
153 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Row  and  eating  strawberries  out  of  season  at  a  pound 
a  basket?" 

"  I  get  my  clothes  from  the  Stores  now,  as  you  can  see," 
he  said,  in  a  desperate  attempt  to  be  humorous,  for  she 
was  in  a  dangerous  mood.  Only  once  before  had  he  seen 
her  so,  and  he  could  feel  the  air  charged  with  catastrophe. 
"And  I'm  eating  humble  pie  in  season  now  at  nothing  a 
dish,"  he  added.  "I  really  am;  and  it  gives  me  shocking 
indigestion." 

Her  face  relaxed  a  little,  for  she  could  seldom  resist 
any  touch  of  humour,  but  the  stubborn  and  wilful  light 
in  her  eyes  remained. 

"That  sounds  like  last  year's  pantomime,"  she  said, 
sharply,  and,  with  a  jerk  of  her  shoulders,  turned  away. 

"  For  God's  sake  wait  a  minute,  Al'mah !"  he  urged,  des- 
perately. "What  has  upset  you?  What  has  happened? 
Before  dinner  you  were  yourself;  now — "  he  threw  up 
his  hands  in  despair — "Ah,  my  dearest,  my  star — " 

She  turned  upon  him  savagely,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
a  storm  of  passion  would  break  upon  him ;  but  all  at  once 
she  changed,  came  up  close  to  him,  and  looked  him 
steadily  in  the  eyes. 

"I  do  not  think  I  trust  you,"  she  said,  quite  quietly. 

His  eyes  could  not  meet  hers  fairly.  He  felt  them 
shrinking  from  her  inquisition.  "You  have  always 
trusted  me  till  now.  What  has  happened?"  he  asked, 
apprehensively  and  with  husky  voice. 

"Nothing  has  happened,"  she  replied  in  a  low,  steady 
voice.  "Nothing.  But  I  seem  to  realize  you  to-night. 
It  came  to  me  suddenly,  at  dinner,  as  I  listened  to  you, 
as  I  saw  you  talk — I  had  never  before  seen  you  in  surround- 
ings like  these.  But  I  realized  you  then :  I  had  a  reve- 
lation. You  need  not  ask  me  what  it  was.  I  do  not 
know  quite.  I  cannot  tell.  It  is  all  vague,  but  it  is 
startling,  and  it  has  gone  through  my  heart  like  a  knife. 
I  tell  you  this,  and  I  tell  you  quite  calmly,  that  if  you 
prove  to  be  what,  for  the  first  time,  I  have  a  vision  you 


"I    WILL    NOT    SING" 

are,  I  shall  never  look  upon  your  face  again  if  I  can  help 
it.  If  I  come  to  know  tnat  you  are  false  in  nature  and 
in  act,  that  all  you  have  said  to  me  is  not  true,  that  you 
have  degraded  me —  Oh,"  she  fiercely  added,  breaking 
off  and  speaking  with  infinite  anger  and  scorn — "it  was 
only  love,  honest  and  true,  however  mistaken,  which 
could  make  what  has  been  between  us  endurable  in  my 
eyes!  What  I  have  thought  was  true  love,  and  its  true 
passion,  helped  me  to  forget  the  degradation  and  the 
secret  shame — only  the  absolute  honesty  of  that  love 
could  make  me  forget.  But  suppose  I  find  it  only  imita- 
tion; suppose  I  see  that  it  is  only  selfishness,  only  horrible, 
ugly  self-indulgence;  suppose  you  are  a  man  who  plays 
with  a  human  soul!  If  I  find  that  to  be  so,  I  tell  you  I 
shall  hate  you;  and  I  shall  hate  myself;  but  I  shall  hate 
you  more — a  thousand  times  more." 

She  paused  with  agony  and  appealing,  with  confusion 
and  vague  horror  in  her  face.  Her  look  was  direct  and 
absorbing,  her  eyes  like  wells  of  sullen  fire. 

"Al'mah,"  he  replied  with  fluttered  eagerness,  "let 
us  talk  of  this  later — not  now — later.  I  will  answer  any- 
thing— everything.  I  can  and  I  will  prove  to  you  that 
this  is  only  a  mad  idea  of  yours,  that — ' 

"No,  no,  no,  not  mad,"  she  interrupted.  "There  is  no 
madness  in  it.  I  had  a  premonition  before  I  came.  It 
was  like  a  cloud  on  my  soul.  It  left  me  when  we  met 
here,  when  I  heard  your  voice  again;  and  for  a  moment 
I  was  happy.  That  was  why  I  sang  before  dinner  that 
song  of  Lassen's,  'Thine  Eyes  So  Blue  and  Tender.'  But 
it  has  come  back.  Something  deep  within  me  says,  'He 
is  not  true.'  Something  whispers,  'He  is  false  by 
nature;  it  is  not  in  him  to  be  true  to  anything  or  any- 
body.' " 

He  made  an  effort  to  carry  off  the  situation  lightly. 

With  a  great  sense  of  humour,  she  had  also  an  infinite 

capacity   for   taking   things   seriously — with   an   almost 

sensational  gravity.     Yet  she  had  always  responded  to 

155 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

his  cheerful  raillery  when  he  had  declined  to  be  tragical. 
He  essayed  the  old  way  now. 

"This  is  just  absurd,  old  girl;" — she  shrank — "you 
really  are  mad.  Your  home  is  Colney  Hatch  or  there- 
abouts. Why,  I'm  just  what  I  always  was  to  you — your 
constant  slave,  your  everlasting  lover,  and  your  friend. 
I'll  talk  it  all  over  with  you  later.  It's  impossible  now. 
They're  ready  for  you  in  the  ball-room.  The  accompanist 
is  waiting.  Do,  do,  do  be  reasonable.  I  will  see  you — 
afterwards — late. ' ' 

A  determined  poignant  look  came  into  her  eyes.  She 
drew  still  farther  away  from  him.  "You  will  not,  you 
shall  not,  see  me  'afterwards — late.'  No,  no,  no;  I  will 
trust  my  instinct  now.  I  am  natural,  I  am  true,  I  hide 
nothing.  I  take  my  courage  in  both  hands.  I  do  not 
hide  my  head  in  the  sands.  I  have  given,  because  I  chose 
to  give,  and  I  made  and  make  no  pretences  to  myself.  I 
answer  to  myself,  and  I  do  not  play  false  with  the  world 
or  with  you.  Whatever  I  am  the  world  can  know,  for  I 
deceive  no  one,  and  I  have  no  fears.  But  you — oh,  why, 
why  is  it  I  feel  now,  suddenly,  that  you  have  the  strain 
of  the  coward  in  you!  Why  it  comes  to  me  now  I  do  not 
know;  but  it  is  here" — she  pressed  her  hand  tremblingly 
to  her  heart — "and  I  will  not  act  as  though  it  wasn't  here. 
I'm  not  of  this  world." 

She  waved  a  hand  towards  the  ball-room.  "  I  am  not 
of  the  world  that  lives  in  terror  of  itself.  Mine  is  a  world 
apart,  where  one  acts  and  lives  and  sings  the  passion  and 
sorrows  and  joys  of  others — all  unreal,  unreal.  The  one 
chance  of  happiness  we  artists  have  is  not  to  act  in  our 
own  lives,  but  to  be  true — real  and  true.  For  one's  own 
life  as  well  as  one's  work  to  be  all  grease-paint — no, 
no,  no.  I  have  hid  all  that  has  been  between  us,  because 
of  things  that  have  nothing  to  do  with  fear  or  courage, 
and  for  your  sake;  but  I  haven't  acted,  or  pretended. 
I  have  not  flaunted  my  private  life,  my  wretched 
sin—" 

156 


"I    WILL    NOT    SING" 

"The  sin  of  an  angel — ' 

She  shrank  from  the  blatant  insincerity  of  the  words, 
and  still  more  from  the  tone.  Why  had  it  not  all  seemed 
insincere  before? 

"But  I  was  true  in  all  I  did,  and  I  believed  you  were," 
she  continued. 

"And  you  don't  believe  it  now?" 

"To-night  I  do  not.  What  I  shall  feel  to-morrow  I 
cannot  tell.  Maybe  I  shall  go  blind  again,  for  women  are 
never  two  days  alike  in  their  minds  or  bodies."  She 
threw  up  her  hands  with  a  despairing  helplessness.  "  But 
we  shall  not  meet  till  to-morrow,  and  then  I  go  back  to 
London.  I  am  going  to  my  room  now.  You  may  tell 
Mrs.  Byng  that  I  am  not  well  enough  to  sing — and  indeed 
I  am  not  well,"  she  added,  huskily.  "  I  am  sick  at  heart 
with  I  don't  know  what;  but  I  am  wretched  and  angry 
and  dangerous — and  bad." 

Her  eyes  fastened  his  with  a  fateful  bitterness  and 
gloom.  "Where  is  Mr.  Byng?"  she  added,  sharply. 
"Why  was  he  not  at  dinner?" 

He  hailed  the  change  of  idea  gladly.  He  spoke  quick- 
ly, eagerly.  "He  was  kept  at  the  mine.  There's  trouble 
— a  strike.  He  was  needed.  He  has  great  influence  with 
the  men,  and  the  masters,  too.  You  heard  Mrs.  Byng 
say  why  he  had  not  returned." 

"No;  I  was  thinking  of  other  things.  But  I  wanted — 
I  want  to  see  him.  When  will  he  be  back?" 

"At  any  moment,  I  should  think.  But,  Al'mah,  no 
matter  what  you  feel  about  me,  you  must  keep  your  en- 
gagement to  sing  here.  The  people  in  there,  a  hundred 
of  the  best  people  of  the  county — " 

"The  best  people  of  the  county — such  abject  snob- 
bery!" she  retorted,  sharply.  "Do  you  think  that  would 
influence  me?  You  ought  to  know  me  well  enough — 
but  that's  just  it,  you  do  not  know  me.  I  realize  it  at 
last.  Listen  now.  I  will  not  sing  to-night,  and  you  will 
go  and  tell  Mrs.  Byng  so." 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Once  again  she  turned  away,  but  her  exit  was  arrested 
by  another  voice,  a  pleasant  voice,  which  said: 

"But  just  one  minute,  please.  Mr.  Fellowes  is  quite 
right.  .  .  .  Fellowes,  won't  you  go  and  say  that  Madame 
Al'mah  will  be  there  in  five  minutes?" 

It  was  Ian  Stafford.  He  had  come  at  Jasmine's  request 
to  bring  Al'mah,  and  he  had  overheard  her  last  words. 
He  saw  that  there  had  been  a  scene,  and  conceived  that 
it  was  the  kind  of  quarrel  which  could  be  better  arranged 
by  a  third  disinterested  person. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  with  an  anxious  yet  hope- 
ful look,  Fellowes  disappeared,  Al'mah's  brown  eyes  fol- 
lowing him  with  dark  inquisition.  Presently  she  looked 
at  Ian  Stafford  with  a  flash  of  malice.  Did  this  elegant 
and  diplomatic  person  think  that  all  he  had  to  do  was  to 
speak,  and  she  would  succumb  to  his  blandishment?  He 
should  see. 

He  smiled,  and  courteously  motioned  her  to  a  chair. 

"You  said  to  Mr.  Fellowes  that  I  should  sing  in  five 
minutes,"  she  remarked  maliciously  and  stubbornly,  but 
she  moved  forward  to  the  chair,  nevertheless. 

"Yes,  but  there  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  sit  for 
three  out  of  the  five  minutes.  Energy  should  be  conserved 
in  a  tiring  world." 

"I  have  some  energy  to  spare — the  overflow,"  she  re- 
turned with  a  protesting  flash  of  the  eyes,  as,  however, 
she  slowly  seated  herself. 

"We  call  it  power  and  magnetism  in  your  case,"  he 
answered  in  that  low,  soothing  voice  which  had  helped 
to  quiet  storms  in  more  than  one  chancellerie  of  Europe. 
.  .  .  "What  are  you  going  to  sing  to-night?"  he  added. 

"I  am  not  going  to  sing,"  she  answered,  nervously. 
"You  heard  what  I  said  to  Mr.  Fellowes." 

"I  was  an  unwilling  eavesdropper;  I  heard  your  last 
words.  But  surely  you  would  not  be  so  unoriginal,  so 
cliche,  as  to  say  the  same  thing  to  me  that  you  said  to 
Mr.  Fellowes!" 

158 


"I    WILL    NOT    SING" 

His  smile  was  winning  and  his  humour  came  from  a 
deep  well.  On  the  instant  she  knew  it  to  be  real,  and  his 
easy  confidence,  his  assumption  of  dominancy  had  its 
advantage. 

"I'll  say  it  in  a  different  way  to  you,  but  it  will  be  the 
same  thing.  I  shall  not  sing  to-night,"  she  retorted, 
obstinately. 

"Then  a  hundred  people  will  go  hungry  to  bed,"  he 
rejoined.  "Hunger  is  a  dreadful  thing — and  there  are 
only  three  minutes  left  out  of  the  five,"  he  added,  looking 
at  his  watch. 

"I  am  not  the  baker  or  the  butler,"  she  replied  with  a 
smile,  but  her  firm  lips  did  not  soften. 

He  changed  his  tactics  with  adroitness.  If  he  failed 
now,  it  would  be  final.  He  thought  he  knew  where  she 
might  be  really  vulnerable. 

"  Byng  will  be  disappointed  and  surprised  when  he  hears 
of  the  famine  that  the  prima  donna  has  left  behind  her. 
Byng  is  one  of  the  best  that  ever  was.  He  is  trying  to  do 
his  fellow-creatures  a  good  turn  down  there  at  the  mine. 
He  never  did  any  harm  that  I  ever  heard  of — and  this  is 
his  house,  and  these  are  his  guests.  He  would,  I'll  stake 
my  life,  do  Al'mah  a  good  turn  if  he  could,  even  if  it  cost 
him  something  quite  big.  He  is  that  kind  of  a  man. 
He  would  be  hurt  to  know  that  you  had  let  the  best 
people  of  the  county  be  parched,  when  you  could  give 
them  drink." 

"You  said  they  were  hungry  a  moment  ago,"  she  re- 
joined, her  resolution  slowly  breaking  under  the  one  in- 
fluence which  could  have  softened  her. 

"They  would  be  both  hungry  and  thirsty,"  he  urged. 
"But,  between  ourselves,  would  you  like  Byng  to  come 
home  from  a  hard  day's  work,  as  it  were,  and  feel  that 
things  had  gone  wrong  here  while  he  was  away  on  hu- 
manity's business?  Just  try  to  imagine  him  having  done 
you  a  service — " 

"He  has  done  me  more  than  one  service,"  she  inter- 
I59 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

jected.  "You  know  it  as  well  as  I  do.  You  were  there 
at  the  opera,  three  years  ago,  when  he  saved  me  from 
the  flames,  and  since  then — " 

Stafford  looked  at  his  watch  again  with  a  smile.  "Be- 
sides, there's  a  far  more  important  reason  why  you  should 
sing  to-night.  I  promised  some  one  who's  been  hurt 
badly,  and  who  never  heard  you  sing,  that  he  should  hear 
you  to-night.  He  is  lying  there  now,  and — " 

"Jigger?"  she  asked,  a  new  light  in  her  eyes,  some- 
thing fleeing  from  her  face  and  leaving  a  strange  softness 
behind  it. 

"Quite  so,"  he  replied.  "That's  a  lad  really  worth 
singing  for.  He's  an  original,  if  ever  there  was  one.  He 
worships  you  for  what  you  have  done  for  his  sister,  Lou, 
I'd  undergo  almost  any  humiliation  not  to  disappoint 
Jigger.  Byng  would  probably  get  over  his  disappoint- 
ment— he'd  only  feel  that  he  hadn't  been  used  fairly, 
and  he's  used  to  that;  but  Jigger  wouldn't  sleep  to-night, 
and  it's  essential  that  he  should.  Think  of  how  much 
happiness  and  how  much  pain  you  can  give,  just  by  trill- 
ing a  simple  little  song  with  your  little  voice — eh,  madame 
la  cantatrice?" 

Suddenly  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  brushed  them 
away  hastily.  "I've  been  upset  and  angry  and  dis- 
turbed— and  I  don't  know  what,"  she  said,  abruptly. 
"One  of  my  black  moods  was  on  me.  They  only  come 
once  in  a  blue  moon;  but  they  almost  kill  me  when  they 
do."  .  .  .  She  stopped  and  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a 
moment,  the  tears  still  in  her  eyes.  "You  are  very 
understanding  and  gentle — and  sensible,"  she  added,  with 
brusque  frankness  and  cordiality.  "Yes,  I  will  sing  for 
Rudyard  Byng  and  for  Jigger ;  and  a  little  too  for 
a  very  clever  diplomatist."  She  gave  a  spasmodic 
laugh. 

"Only  half  a  minute  left,"  he  rejoined  with  gay  raillery. 
"  I  said  you'd  sing  to  them  in  five  minutes,  and  you  must. 
This  way." 

160 


"I    WILL    NOT    SING" 

He  offered  her  his  arm,  she  took  it,  and  in  cheerful  si- 
lence he  hurried  her  to  the  ball-room. 

Before  her  first  song  he  showed  her  the  window  which 
looked  across  to  that  out  of  which  Jigger  gazed  with 
trembling  eagerness.  The  blinds  and  curtains  were  up 
at  these  windows,  and  Jigger  could  see  her  as  she  sang. 

Never  in  all  her  wonderful  career  had  Al'mah  sung 
so  well — with  so  much  feeling  and  an  artist's  genius — 
not  even  that  night  of  all  when  she  made  her  debut.  The 
misery,  the  gloom,  the  bitterness  of  the  past  hour  had 
stirred  every  fibre  of  her  being,  and  her  voice  told  with 
thrilling  power  the  story  of  a  soul. 

Once  after  an  outburst  of  applause  from  the  brilliant 
audience,  there  came  a  tiny  echo  of  it  from  across  the 
courtyard.  It  was  Jigger,  enraptured  by  a  vision  of 
heaven  and  the  sounds  of  it.  Al'mah  turned  towards  the 
window  with  a  shining  face,  and  waved  a  kiss  out  of  the 
light  and  glory  where  she  was,  to  the  sufferer  in  the  dark- 
ness. Then,  after  a  whispered  word  to  the  accompanist 
she  began  singing  Gounod's  memorable  song,  "There  is  a 
Green  Hill  Far  Away."  It  was  not  what  the  audience 
expected;  it  was  in  strangest  contrast  to  all  that  had  gone 
before;  it  brought  a  hush  like  a  benediction  upon  the 
great  chamber.  Her  voice  seemed  to  ache  with  the 
plaintive  depth  of  the  song,  and  the  soft  night  filled  its 
soul  with  melody. 

A  wonderful  and  deep  solemnity  was  suddenly  diffused 
upon  the  assembly  of  world-worn  people,  to  most  of  whom 
the  things  that  mattered  were  those  which  gave  them 
diversion.  They  were  wont  to  swim  with  the  tide  of 
indolence,  extravagance,  self-seeking,  and  sordid  pleasure 
now  flowing  through  the  hardy  isles,  from  which  had 
come  much  of  the  strength  of  the  Old  World  and  the 
vision  and  spirit  of  the  New  World. 

Why  had  she  chosen  this  song?  Because,  all  at  once, 
as  she  thought  of  Jigger  lying  there  in  the  dark  room,  she 
161 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

had  a  vision  of  her  own  child  lying  near  to  death  in  the 
grasp  of  pneumonia  five  years  ago;  and  the  misery  of  that 
time  swept  over  her — its  rebellion,  its  hideous  fear,  its 
bitter  loneliness.  She  recalled  how  a  woman,  once  a  great 
singer,  now  grown  old  in  years  as  in  sorrow,  had  sung  this 
very  song  to  her  then,  in  the  hour  of  her  direst  appre- 
hension. She  sang  it  now  to  her  own  dead  child,  and  to 
Jigger.  When  she  ceased,  there  was  not  a  sound  save  of 
some  woman  gently  sobbing.  Others  were  vainly  trying 
to  choke  back  their  tears. 

Presently,  as  Al'mah  stood  still  in  the  hush  which  was 
infinitely  more  grateful  to  her  than  any  applause,  she  saw 
Krool  advancing  hurriedly  up  the  centre  aisle.  He  was 
drawn  and  haggard,  and  his  eyes  were  sunken  and  wild. 
Turning  at  the  platform,  he  said  in  a  strange,  hollow  voice: 

"At  the  mine — an  accident.  The  Baas  he  go  down  to 
save — he  not  come  up." 

With  a  cry  Jasmine  staggered  to  her  feet.  Ian  Stafford 
was  beside  her  in  an  instant. 

"The  Baas — the  Baas!"  said  Krool,  insistently,  pain- 
fully. "I  have  the  horses — come." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE     BAAS 

THERE  had  been  an  explosion  in  the  Glencader 
Mine,  and  twenty  men  had  been  imprisoned  in  the 
stark  solitude  of  the  underground  world.  Or  was  it  that 
they  lay  dead  in  that  vast  womb  of  mother-earth  which 
takes  all  men  of  all  time  as  they  go,  and  absorbs  them  into 
her  fruitful  body,  to  produce  other  men  who  will  in  due 
days  return  to  the  same  great  mother  to  rest  and  be 
still  ?  It  mattered  little  whether  malevolence  had  planned 
the  outrage  in  the  mine,  or  whether  accident  alone  had 
been  responsible;  the  results  were  the  same.  Wailing, 
woebegone  women  wrung  their  hands,  and  haggard,  de- 
termined men  stood  by  with  bowed  heads,  ready  to  offer 
their  lives  to  save  those  other  lives  far  down  below,  if 
so  be  it  were  possible. 

The  night  was  serene  and  quiet,  clear  and  cold,  with 
glimmering  stars  and  no  moon,  and  the  wide  circle  of  the 
hills  was  drowsy  with  night  and  darkness.  All  was  at 
peace  in  the  outer  circle,  but  at  the  centre  was  travail  and 
storm  and  outrage  and  death.  What  nature  had  made 
beautiful,  man  had  made  ugly  by  energy  and  all  the  harsh 
necessities  of  progress.  In  the  very  heart  of  this  exquisite 
and  picturesque  country-side  the  ugly,  grim  life  of  the 
miner  had  established  itself,  and  had  then  turned  an  un- 
lovely field  of  industrial  activity  into  a  cock-pit  of  struggle 
between  capital  and  labour.  First,  discontent,  fed  by  paid 
agitators  and  scarcely  steadied  by  responsible  and  level- 
headed labour  agents  and  leaders;  then  active  disturbance 
and  threatening;  then  partial  strike,  then  minor  out- 
163 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

rages,  then  some  foolishness  on  the  part  of  manager  of 
man,  and  now  tragedy  darkening  the  field,  adding  bitter- 
ness profound  to  the  discontent  and  strife. 

Rudyard  Byng  had  arrived  on  the  scene  in  the  later 
stages  of  the  struggle,  when  a  general  strike  with  all  its 
attendant  miseries,  its  dangers  and  provocations,  was 
hovering.  Many  men  in  his  own  mine  in  South  Africa 
had  come  from  this  very  district,  and  he  was  known  to 
be  the  most  popular  of  all  the  capitalists  on  the  Rand. 
His  generosity  to  the  sick  and  poor  of  the  Glencader  Mine 
had  been  great,  and  he  had  given  them  a  hospital  and  a 
club  with  adequate  endowment.  Also,  he  had  been  known 
to  take  part  in  the  rough  sports  of  the  miners,  and  had 
afterwards  sat  and  drunk  beer  with  them — as  much  as 
any,  and  carrying  it  better  than  any. 

If  there  was  any  one  who  could  stay  the  strike  and 
bring  about  a  settlement  it  was  he;  and  it  is  probable  he 
would  have  stayed  it,had  it  not  been  for  a  collision  between 
a  government  official  and  a  miners'  leader.  Things  had 
grown  worse,  until  the  day  of  catastrophe,  when  Byng  had 
been  sent  for  by  the  leaders  of  both  parties  to  the  quarrel. 
He  had  laboured  hour  after  hour  in  the  midst  of  grave 
unrest  and  threats  of  violence,  for  some  of  the  men  had 
taken  to  drinking  heavily — but  without  success.  Still  he 
had  stayed  on,  going  here  and  there,  mostly  among  the 
men  themselves,  talking  to  them  in  little  groups,  arguing 
simply  with  them,  patiently  dealing  with  facts  and  figures, 
quietly  showing  them  the  economic  injustice  which  lay 
behind  their  full  demands,  and  suggesting  compromises. 

He  was  received  with  good  feeling,  but  in  the  workers' 
view  it  was  "class  against  class — labour  against  capital, 
the  man  against  the  master."  In  their  view  Byng  repre- 
sented class,  capital  and  master,  not  man;  his  interests 
were  not  identical  with  theirs;  and  though  some  were  dis- 
posed to  cheer  him,  the  majority  said  he  was  "as  good  a 
sort  as  that  sort  can  be,"  but  shrugged  their  shoulders  and 
remained  obstinate.  The  most  that  he  did  during  the  long 
164 


THE    BAAS 

afternoon  and  evening  was  to  prevent  the  worst;  until,  as 
he  sat  eating  a  slice  of  ham  in  a  miner's  kitchen,  there  came 
the  explosion:  the  accident — or  crime — which,  like  the 
lancet  in  an  angry  tumour,  let  out  the  fury,  enmity,  and 
rebellion,  and  gave  human  nature  its  chance  again.  The 
shock  of  the  explosion  had  been  heard  at  Glencader,  but 
nothing  was  thought  of  it,  as  there  had  been  much  blast- 
ing in  the  district  for  days. 

"There's  twenty  men  below,"  said  the  grimy  manager 
who  had  brought  the  news  to  Byng.  Together  they  sped 
towards  the  mine,  little  groups  running  beside  them,  mut- 
tering those  dark  sayings  which,  either  as  curses  or  la- 
ments, are  painful  comments  on  the  relations  of  life  on 
the  lower  levels  with  life  on  the  higher  plateaux. 

Among  the  volunteers  to  go  below,  Byng  was  of  the  first, 
and  against  the  appeal  of  the  mine-manager,  and  of  others 
who  tried  to  dissuade  him,  he  took  his  place  with  two 
miners  with  the  words: 

"I  know  this  pit  better  than  most;  and  I'd  rather  be 
down  there  knowing  the  worst,  than  waiting  to  learn  it 
up  here.  I'm  going;  so  lower  away,  lads." 

He  had  disappeared,  and  for  a  long  time  there  was  no 
sign;  but  at  last  there  came  to  the  surface  three  of  the 
imprisoned  miners  and  two  dead  bodies,  and  these  were 
followed  by  others  still  alive;  but  Byng  did  not  come  up. 
He  remained  below,  leading  the  search,  the  first  in  the 
places  of  danger  and  exploration,  the  last  to  retreat 
from  any  peril  of  falling  timbers  or  from  fresh  ex- 
plosion. Twelve  of  the  twenty  men  were  rescued.  Six 
were  dead,  and  their  bodies  were  brought  to  the  sur- 
face and  to  the  arms  of  women  whose  breadwinners  were 
gone;  whose  husbands  or  sons  or  brothers  had  been 
struck  out  into  darkness  without  time  to  strip  themselves 
of  the  impedimenta  of  the  soul.  Two  were  left  below, 
and  these  were  brothers  who  had  married  but  three 
months  before.  They  were  strong,  buoyant  men  of 
twenty-five,  with  life  just  begun,  and  home  still  welcome 
165 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

and  alluring — warm-faced,  bonny  women  to  meet  them 
at  the  door,  and  lay  the  cloth,  and  comfort  their  beds, 
and  cheer  them  away  to  work  in  the  morning.  These 
four  lovers  had  been  the  target  for  the  good-natured  and 
half -affectionate  scoffing  of  the  whole  field ;  for  the  twins, 
Jabez  and  Jacob,  were  as  alike  as  two  peas,  and  their  wives 
were  cousins,  and  were  of  a  type  in  mind,  body,  and  estate. 
These  twin  toilers  were  left  below,  with  Rudyard  Byng 
forcing  his  way  to  the  place  where  they  had  worked.  With 
him  was  one  other  miner  of  great  courage  and  knowledge, 
who  had  gone  with  other  rescue  parties  in  other  catas- 
trophes. 

It  was  this  man  who  was  carried  to  the  surface  when 
another  small  explosion  occurred.  He  brought  the  ter- 
rible news  that  Byng,  the  rescuer  of  so  many,  was  himself 
caught  by  falling  timbers  and  imprisoned  near  a  spot 
where  Jabez  and  Jacob  Holyhoke  were  entombed. 

Word  had  gone  to  Glencader,  and  within  an  hour 
and  a  half  Jasmine,  Al'mah,  Stafford,  Lord  Tynemouth, 
the  Slavonian  Ambassador,  Adrian  Fellowes,  Mr.  Tudor 
Tempest  and  others  were  at  the  pit's  mouth,  stricken 
by  the  same  tragedy  which  had  made  so  many  widows 
and  orphans  that  night.  Already  two  attempts  had 
been  made  to  descend,  but  they  had  not  been  success- 
ful. Now  came  forward  a  burly  and  dour-looking  miner, 
called  Brengyn,  who  had  been  down  before,  and  had  been 
in  command.  His  look  was  forbidding,  but  his  face  was 
that  of  a  man  on  whom  you  could  rely ;  and  his  eyes  had 
a  dogged,  indomitable  expression.  Behind  him  were  a 
dozen  men,  sullen  and  haggard,  their  faces  showing  noth- 
ing of  that  pity  in  their  hearts  which  drove  them  to  risk 
all  to  save  the  lives  of  their  fellow-workers.  Was  it  all 
pity  and  humanity?  Was  there  also  something  of  that 
perdurable  cohesion  of  class  against  class;  the  powerful 
if  often  unlovely  unity  of  faction;  the  shoulder-to-shoulder 
combination  of  war;  the  tribal  fanaticism  which  makes 
brave  men  out  of  unpromising  material?  Maybe  some- 
166 


THE    BAAS 

thing  of  this  element  entered  into  the  heroism  which  had 
been  displayed;  but  whatever  the  impulse  or  the  motive, 
the  act  and  the  end  were  the  same — men's  lives  were 
in  peril,  and  they  were  risking  their  own  to  rescue 
them. 

When  Jasmine  and  her  friends  arrived,  Ian  Stafford 
addressed  himself  to  the  groups  of  men  at  the  pit's  mouth, 
asking  for  news.  Seeing  Brengyn  approach  Jasmine,  he 
hurried  over,  recognizing  in  the  stalwart  miner  a  leader 
of  men. 

"It's  a  chance  in  a  thousand,"  he  heard  Brengyn  say 
to  Jasmine,  whose  white  face  showed  no  trace  of  tears,  and 
who  held  herself  with  courage.  There  was  something  akin 
in  the  expression  of  her  face  and  that  of  other  groups  of 
women,  silent,  rigid  and  bitter,  who  stood  apart,  some  with 
children's  hands  clasped  in  theirs,  facing  the  worst  with 
regnant  resolution.  All  had  that  horrible  quietness  of 
despair  so  much  more  poignant  than  tears  and  wailing. 
Their  faces  showed  the  weariness  of  labour  and  an  ill- 
nourished  daily  life,  but  there  was  the  same  look  in  them 
as  in  Jasmine's.  There  was  no  class  in  this  communion 
of  suffering  and  danger. 

"Not  one  chance  in  a  thousand,"  Brengyn  added, 
heavily.  "I  know  where  they  are,  but — " 

"You  think  they  are — dead?"  Jasmine  asked  in  a 
hollow  voice. 

"I  think,  alive  or  dead,  it's  all  against  them  as  goes 
down  to  bring  them  out.  It's  more  lives  to  be  wasted." 

Stafford  heard,  and  he  stepped  forward.  "If  there's 
a  chance  in  a  thousand,  it's  good  enough  for  a  try,"  he 
said.  ' '  If  you  were  there,  Mr.  Byng  would  take  the  chance 
in  the  thousand  for  you." 

Brengyn  looked  Stafford  up  and  down  slowly.  "What 
is  it  you've  got  to  say?"  he  asked,  gloomily. 

"I  am  going  down,  if  there's  anybody  will  lead,"  Staf- 
ford replied.  "I  was  brought  up  in  a  mining  country. 
I  know  as  much  as  most  of  you  about  mines,  and  I'll 
12  167 


THE  JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

make  one  to  follow  you,  if  you'll  lead — you've  been  down, 
I  know." 

Brengyn's  face  changed.  "Mr.  Byng  isn't  oui  jlass, 
he's  with  capital,"  he  said,  "but  he's  a  man.  He  went 
down  to  help  save  men  of  my  class,  and  to  any  of  us  he's 
v.'orth  the  risk.  But  how  many  of  his  own  class  is  taking 


"I,  for  one,"  said  Lord  Tynemouth,  stepping  forward. 

"I — I,"  answered  three  other  men  of  the  house-party. 

Al'mah,  who  was  standing  just  below  Jasmine,  had  her 
eyes  fixed  on  Adrian  Fellowes,  and  when  Brengyn  called 
for  volunteers,  her  heart  almost  stood  still  in  suspense. 
Would  Adrian  volunteer? 

Brengyn's  look  rested  on  Adrian  for  an  instant,  but 
Adrian's  eyes  dropped.  Brengyn  had  said  one  chance 
in  a  thousand,  and  Adrian  said  to  himself  that  he  had 
never  been  lucky — never  in  all  his  life.  At  games  of 
chance  he  had  always  lost.  Adrian  was  for  the  sure 
thing  always. 

Al'mah's  face  flushed  with  anger  and  shame  at  the 
thing  she  saw,  and  a  weakness  came  over  her,  as  though 
the  springs  of  life  had  been  suddenly  emptied. 

Brengyn  once  again  fastened  the  group  from  Glencader 
with  his  eyes.  "There's  a  gentleman  in  danger,"  he  said, 
grimly,  again.  "How  many  gentlemen  volunteer  to  go 
down — ay,  there's  five!"  he  added,  as  Stafford  and  Tyne- 
mouth and  the  others  once  again  responded. 

Jasmine  saw,  but  at  first  did  not  fully  realize  what  was 
happening.  But  presently  she  understood  that  there  was 
one  near,  owing  everything  to  her  husband,  who  had  not 
volunteered  to  help  to  save  him — on  the  thousandth 
chance.  She  was  stunned  and  stricken. 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,  go!"  she  said,  brokenly,  but  not 
looking  at  Adrian  Fellowes,  and  with  a  heart  torn  by 
misery  and  shame. 

Brengyn  turned  to  the  men  behind  him,  the  dark,  deter- 
mined toilers  who  sustained  the  immortal  spirit  of  courage 
168 


THE    BAAS 

and  humanity  on  thirty  shillings  a  week  and  nine  hours' 
work  a  day.  "Who's  for  it,  mates?"  he  asked,  roughly. 
"Who's  going  wi'  me?" 

Every  man  answered  hoarsely,  "Ay,"  and  every  hand 
went  up.  Brengyn's  back  was  on  Fellowes,  Al'mah,  and 
Jasmine  now.  There  was  that  which  filled  the  cup  of 
trembling  for  Al'mah  in  the  way  he  nodded  to  the  men. 

"Right,  lads,"  he  said  with  a  stern  joy  in  his  voice 
"But  there's  only  one  of  you  can  go,  and  I'll  pick  him. 
Here,  Jim,"  he  added  to  a  small,  wiry  fellow  not  more 
than  five  feet  four  in  height — "here,  Jim  Gawley,  you're 
comin'  wi'  me,  an'  that's  all  o'  you  as  can  come.  No,  no," 
he  added,  as  there  was  loud  muttering  and  dissent.  "Jim's 
got  no  missis,  nor  mother,  and  he's  tough  as  leather  and 
can  squeeze  in  small  places,  and  he's  all  right,  too,  in 
tight  corners."  Now  he  turned  to  Stafford  and  Tyne- 
mouth  and  the  others.  "You'll  come  wi'  me,"  he  said 
to  Stafford — "if  you  want.  It's  a  bad  look-out,  but  we'll 
have  a  try.  You'll  do  what  I  say?"  he  sharply  asked 
Stafford,  whose  face  was  set. 

"You  know  the  place,"  Stafford  answered.  "I'll  do 
what  you  say." 

"My  word  goes?" 

"Right.    Your  word  goes.     Let's  get  on." 

Jasmine  took  a  step  forward  with  a  smothered  cry,  but 
Alice  Tynemouth  laid  a  hand  on  her  arm. 

"He'll  bring  Rudyard  back,  if  it  can  be  done,"  she 
whispered. 

Stafford  did  not  turn  round.  He  said  something  in  an 
undertone  to  Tynemouth,  and  then,  without  a  glance 
behind,  strode  away  beside  Brengyn  and  Jim  Gawley  to 
the  pit's  mouth. 

Adrian  Fellowes  stepped  up  to  Tynemouth.  "What 
do  you  think  the  chances  are?"  he  asked  in  a  low  tone. 

"Go  to — bed!"  was  the  gruff  reply  of  the  irate  peer, 
to  whom  cowardice  was  the  worst  crime  on  earth,  and 
who  was  enraged  at  being  left  behind.  Also  he  was 
169 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

furious  because  so  many  working-men  had  responded  to 
Brengyn's  call  for  volunteers  and  Adrian  Fellowes  had 
shown  the  white  feather.  In  the  obvious  appeal  to  the 
comparative  courage  of  class  his  own  class  had  suffered. 

"Or  go  and  talk  to  the  women,"  he  added  to  Fellowes. 
"Make  'em  comfortable.  You've  got  a  gift  that  way." 

Turning  on  his  heel,  Lord  Tynemouth  hastened  to  the 
mouth  of  the  pit  and  watched  the  preparations  for  the 
descent. 

Never  was  night  so  still;  never  was  a  sky  so  deeply 
blue,  nor  stars  so  bright  and  serene.  It  was  as  though 
Peace  had  made  its  habitation  on  the  wooded  hills,  and 
a  second  summer  had  come  upon  the  land,  though  winter- 
time was  near.  Nature  seemed  brooding,  and  the  gener- 
ous odour  of  ripened  harvests  came  over  the  uplands  to 
the  watchers  in  the  valley.  All  was  dark  and  quiet  in  the 
sky  and  on  the  hills ;  but  in  the  valley  were  twinkling  lights 
and  the  stir  and  murmur  of  troubled  life — that  sinister 
muttering  of  angry  and  sullen  men  which  has  struck  terror 
to  the  hearts  of  so  many  helpless  victims  of  revolution, 
when  it  has  been  the  mutterings  of  thousands  and  not  of 
a  few  rough,  discontented  toilers.  As  Al'mah  sat  near 
to  the  entrance  of  the  mine,  wrapped  in  a  warm  cloak,  and 
apart  from  the  others  who  watched  and  waited  also,  she 
seemed  to  realize  the  agony  of  the  problem  which  was 
being  worked  out  in  these  labour-centres  where,  between 
capital  and  the  work  of  men's  hands,  there  was  so  appar- 
ent a  gulf  of  disproportionate  return. 

The  stillness  of  the  night  was  broken  now  by  the  hoarse 
calls  of  the  men,  now  by  the  wailing  of  women,  and  AT- 
mah's  eyes  kept  turning  to  those  places  where  lights  were 
shining,  which,  as  she  knew,  were  houses  of  death  or  pain. 
For  hours  she  and  Jasmine  and  Lady  Tynemouth  had  gone 
from  cottage  to  cottage  where  the  dead  and  wounded  were, 
and  had  left  everywhere  gifts,  and  the  promises  of  gifts, 
in  the  attempt  to  soften  the  cruelty  of  the  blow  to  those 
170 


THE    BAAS 

whose  whole  life  depended  on  the  weekly  wage.  Help  and 
the  pledge  of  help  had  lightened  many  a  dark  corner  that 
night;  and  an  unexplainable  antipathy  which  had  sud- 
denly grown  up  in  Al'mah's  mind  against  Jasmine  after 
her  arrival  at  Glencader  was  dissipated  as  the  hours  wore 
on. 

Pale  of  face,  but  courageous  and  solicitous,  Jasmine, 
accompanied  by  Al'mah,  moved  among  the  dead  and 
dying  and  the  bitter  and  bereaved  living,  with  a  gentle 
smile  and  a  soft  word  or  touch  of  the  hand.  Men  near 
to  death,  or  suffering  torture,  looked  gratefully  at  her  or 
tried  to  smile;  and  more  than  once  Mr.  Mappin,  whose 
hands  were  kept  busy  and  whose  skill  saved  more  than  a 
handful  of  lives  that  night,  looked  at  her  in  wonder. 

Jasmine  already  had  a  reputation  in  the  great  social 
world  for  being  of  a  vain  lightness,  having  nothing  of  that 
devotion  to  good  works  which  Mr.  Mappin  had  seen  so 
often  on  those  high  levels  where  the  rich  and  the  aristo- 
cratic lived.  There  was,  then,  more  than  beauty  and  wit 
and  great  social  gift,  gaiety  and  charm,  in  this  delicate 
personality?  Yes,  there  was  something  good  and  sound 
in  her,  after  all.  Her  husband's  life  was  in  infinite  danger, 
— had  not  Brengyn  said  that  his  chances  were  only  one 
in  a  thousand — death  stared  her  savagely  in  the  face;  yet 
she  bore  herself  as  calmly  as  those  women  who  could  not 
afford  the  luxury  of  tears  or  the  self-indulgence  of  a  de- 
spairing indolence;  to  whom  tragedy  was  but  a  whip  of 
scorpions  to  drive  them  into  action.  How  well  they  all 
behaved,  these  society  butterflies — Jasmine,  Lady  Tyne- 
mouth,  and  the  others !  But  what  a  wonderful  motherli- 
ness  and  impulsive  sympathy  steadied  by  common  sense 
did  Al'mah  the  singing-woman  show! 

Her  instinct  was  infallible,  her  knowledge  of  how  these 
poor  people  felt  was  intuitive,  and  her  great-hearted  ness 
was  to  be  seen  in  every  motion,  heard  in  every  tone  of 
her  voice.  If  she  had  not  had  this  work  of  charity  to  do, 
she  felt  she  would  have  gone  shrieking  through  the  valley, 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

as,  this  very  midnight,  she  had  seen  a  girl  with  streaming 
hair  and  bare  breast  go  crying  through  the  streets,  and  on 
up  the  hills  to  the  deep  woods,  insane  with  grief  and  woe. 

Her  head  throbbed.  She  felt  as  though  she  also  could 
tear  the  coverings  from  her  own  bosom  to  let  out  the 
fever  which  was  there;  for  in  her  life  she  had  loved  two 
men  who  had  trampled  on  her  self-respect,  had  shattered 
all  her  pride  of  life,  had  made  her  ashamed  to  look  the 
world  in  the  face.  Blantyre,  her  husband,  had  been 
despicable  and  cruel,  a  liar  and  a  deserter;  and  to-night 
she  had  seen  the  man  to  whom  she  had  given  all  that  was 
left  of  her  heart  and  faith  disgrace  himself  and  his  class 
before  the  world  by  a  cowardice  which  no  woman  could 
forgive. 

Adrian  Fellowes  had  gone  back  to  Glencader  to  do 
necessary  things,  to  prepare  the  household  for  any  emer- 
gency; and  she  was  grateful  for  the  respite.  If  she  had 
been  thrown  with  him  in  the  desperate  mood  of  the  mo- 
ment, she  would  have  lost  her  self-control.  Happily,  fate 
had  taken  him  away  for  a  few  hours;  and  who  could  tell 
what  might  not  happen  in  a  few  hours?  Meanwhile, 
there  was  humanity's  work  to  be  done. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  she  came  out 
from  a  cottage  where  she  had  assisted  Mr.  Mappin  in  a 
painful  and  dangerous  operation,  she  stood  for  a  moment 
in  reverie,  looking  up  at  the  hills,  whose  peace  had  been 
shrilly  broken  a  few  hours  before  by  that  distracted  waif 
of  the  world,  fleeing  from  the  pain  of  life. 

An  ample  star  of  rare  brilliancy  came  stealing  up  over 
the  trees  against  the  sky-line,  twinkling  and  brimming 
with  light. 

"No,"  she  said,  as  though  in  reply  to  an  inner  voice, 
"  there's  nothing  for  me — nothing.  I  have  missed  it  all." 
Her  hands  clasped  her  breast  in  pain,  and  she  threw  her 
face  upwards.  But  the  light  of  the  star  caught  her  eyes, 
and  her  hands  ceased  to  tremble.  A  strange  quietness 
stole  over  her. 

172 


THE    BAAS 

"My  child,  my  lost  beloved  child,"  she  whispered. 

Her  eyes  swam  with  tears  now,  the  lines  of  pain  at  her 
mouth  relaxed,  the  dark  look  in  her  eyes  stole  away.  She 
watched  the  star  with  sorrowful  eyes.  "How  much 
misery  does  it  see!"  she  said.  Suddenly,  she  thought  of 
Rudyard  Byng.  "He  saved  my  life,"  she  murmured. 
"I  owe  him — ah,  Adrian  might  have  paid  the  debt!"  she 
cried,  in  pain.  "If  he  had  only  been  a  man  to-night — " 

At  that  moment  there  came  a  loud  noise  up  the  valley 
from  the  pit's  mouth — a  great  shouting.  An  instant  later 
two  figures  ran  past  her.  One  was  Jasmine,  the  other  was 
a  heavy-footed  miner.  Gathering  her  cloak  around  her, 
Al'mah  sped  after  them. 

A  huddled  group  at  the  pit's  mouth,  and  men  and 
women  running  toward  it ;  a  sharp  voice  of  command,  and 
the  crowd  falling  back,  making  way  for  men  who  carried 
limp  bodies  past ;  then  suddenly,  out  of  wild  murmurs  and 
calls,  a  cry  of  victory  like  the  call  of  a  muezzin  from  the 
tower  of  a  mosque — a  resonant  monotony,  in  which  a 
dominant  principle  cries. 

A  Welsh  preaching  hillman,  carried  away  by  the 
triumph  of  the  moment,  gave  the  great  tragedy  the  bugle- 
note  of  human  joy  and  pride. 

Ian  Stafford  and  Brengyn  and  Jim  Gawley  had  con- 
quered. The  limp  bodies  carried  past  Al'mah  were  not 
dead.  They  were  living,  breathing  men  whom  fresh  air 
and  a  surgeon's  aid  would  soon  restore.  Two  of  them 
were  the  young  men  with  the  bonny  wives  who  now  with 
murmured  endearments  grasped  their  cold  hands.  Behind 
these  two  was  carried  Rudyard  Byng,  who  could  com- 
mand the  less  certain  concentration  of  a  heart.  The  men 
whom  Rudyard  had  gone  to  save  could  control  a  greater 
wealth,  a  more  precious  thing  than  anything  he  had.  The 
boundaries  of  the  interests  of  these  workers  were  limited, 
but  their  souls  were  commingled  with  other  souls  bound 
to  them  by  the  formalities;  and  every  minute  of  their 
days,  every  atom  of  their  forces,  were  moving  round  one 
173 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

light,  the  light  upon  the  hearthstone.  These  men  were 
carried  ahead  of  Byng  now,  as  though  by  the  ritual  of  nature 
taking  their  rightful  place  in  life's  procession  before  him. 

Something  of  what  the  working-women  felt  possessed 
Jasmine,  but  it  was  an  impulse  born  of  the  moment,  a 
flood  of  feeling  begotten  by  the  tragedy.  It  had  in  it 
more  of  remorse  than  aught  else;  it  was,  in  part,  the 
agitation  of  a  soul  surprised  into  revelation.  Yet  there 
was,  too,  a  strange,  deep,  undefined  pity  welling  up  in 
her  heart, — pity  for  Rudyard,  and  because  of  what  she 
did  not  say  directly  even  to  her  own  soul.  But  pity  was 
there,  with  also  a  sense  of  inevitableness,  of  the  continu- 
ance of  things  which  she  was  too  weak  to  alter. 

Like  the  two  women  of  the  people  ahead,  she  held  Rud- 
yard's  hand,  as  she  walked  beside  him,  till  he  was  carried 
into  the  manager's  office  near  by.  She  was  conscious  that 
on  the  other  side  of  Rudyard  was  a  tall  figure  that  stag- 
gered and  swayed  as  it  moved  on,  and  that  two  dark  eyes 
were  turned  towards  her  ever  and  anon. 

Into  those  eyes  she  had  looked  but  once  since  the  rescue, 
but  all  that  was  necessary  of  gratitude  was  said  in  that 
one  glance:  "You  have  saved  Rudyard — you,  Ian,"  it  said. 

With  Al'mah  it  was  different.  In  the  light  of  the  open 
door  of  the  manager's  office,  she  looked  into  Ian  Staf- 
ford's face.  "  He  saved  my  life,  you  remember,"  she  said; 
"and  you  have  saved  his.  I  love  you." 

"/  love  you!"  Greatness  of  heart  was  speaking,  not 
a  woman's  emotions.  The  love  she  meant  was  of  the 
sort  which  brings  no  darkness  in  its  train.  Men  and 
women  can  speak  of  it  without  casting  down  their  eyes 
or  feeling  a  flush  in  their  cheeks. 

To  him  came  also  the  two  women  whose  husbands, 
Jacob  and  Jabez,  were  restored  to  them. 

"Man,  we  luv  ye,"  one  said,  and  the  other  laid  a  hand 
on  his  breast  and  nodded  assent,  adding,  "Ay,  we  luv  ye." 

That  was  all;  but  greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this, 
that  he  lay  down  his  life  for  his  friend — and  for  his  enemies, 
J74 


THE    BAAS 

maybe.  Enemies  these  two  rescued  men  were  in  one 
sense — young  socialists — enemies  to  the  present  social 
order,  with  faces  set  against  the  capitalist  and  the  aristo- 
crat and  the  landlord;  yet  in  the  crisis  of  life  dipping  their 
hands  in  the  same  dish,  drinking  from  the  same  cup, 
moved  by  the  same  sense  of  elementary  justice,  pity, 
courage,  and  love. 

' '  Man,  we  luv  ye!"  And  the  women  turned  away  to  their 
own — to  their  capital,  which  in  the  slump  of  Fate  had  suffered 
no  loss.  It  was  theirs,  complete  and  paying  large  dividends. 

To  the  crowd,  Brengyn,  with  gruff  sincerity,  said, 
loudly:  "Jim  Gawley,  he  done  as  I  knowed  he'd  do.  He 
done  his  best,  and  he  done  it  prime.  We  couldn't  ha'  got 
on  wi'out  him.  But  first  there  was  Mr.  Byng  as  had 
sense  and  knowledge  more  than  any;  an'  he  couldn't  be 
denied;  an*  there  was  Mr.  Stafford — him — "  pointing  to 
Ian,  who,  with  misty  eyes,  was  watching  the  women  go 
back  to  their  men.  "He  done  his  bit  better  nor  any  of 
us.  And  Mr.  Byng  and  Jacob  and  Jabez,  they  can  thank 
their  stars  that  Mr.  Stafford  done  his  bit.  Jim's  all  right, 
an'  I  done  my  duty,  I  hope,  but  these  two  that  ain't  of 
us,  they  done  more — Mr.  Byng  and  Mr.  Stafford.  Here's 
three  cheers,  lads — no,  this  ain't  a  time  for  cheerin' ;  but 
ye  all  ha"  got  hands." 

His  hand  caught  lan's  with  the  grip  of  that  brother- 
hood which  is  as  old  as  Adam,  and  the  hand  of  miner  after 
miner  did  the  same. 

The  strike  was, over — at  a  price  too  big  for  human  cal- 
culation; but  it  might  have  been  bigger  still. 

'  Outside  the  open  door  of  the  manager's  office  Stafford 
watched  and  waited  till  he  saw  Rudyard,  with  a  little 
laugh,  get  slowly  to  his  feet  and  stretch  his  limbs  heavily. 
Then  he  turned  away  gloomily  to  the  darkness  of  the 
hills.  In  his  soul  there  was  a  depression  as  deep  as  in 
that  of  the  singing-woman. 

"  Al'mah  had  her  debt  to  pay,  and  I  shall  have  mine," 
he  said,  wearily. 

J7S 


BOOK    III 


BOOK   III 
CHAPTER  XV 

THE   WORLD   WELL   LOST 

PEOPLE  were  in  London  in  September  and  October 
who  seldom  arrived  before  November.  War  was 
coming.  Hundreds  of  families  whose  men  were  in  the 
army  came  to  be  within  touch  of  the  War  Office  and 
Aldershot,  and  the  capital  of  the  Empire  was  overrun  by 
intriguers,  harmless  and  otherwise.  There  were  ladies 
who  hoped  to  influence  officers  in  high  command  in  favour 
of  their  husbands,  brothers,  or  sons;  subalterns  of  title 
who  wished  to  be  upon  the  staff  of  some  famous  general; 
colonels  of  character  and  courage  and  scant  ability,  crav- 
ing commands;  high-placed  folk  connected  with  great 
industrial,  shipping,  or  commercial  firms,  who  were  used 
by  these  firms  to  get  "their  share"  of  contracts  and  other 
things  which  might  be  going;  and  patriotic  amateurs  who 
sought  to  make  themselves  notorious  through  some 
civilian  auxiliary  to  war  organization,  like  a  voluntary 
field  hospital  or  a  home  of  convalescence.  But  men,  too, 
of  the  real  right  sort,  longing  for  chance  of  work  in  their 
profession  of  arms;  ready  for  anything,  good  for  anything, 
brave  to  a  miracle :  and  these  made  themselves  fit  by  hard 
riding  or  walking  or  rowing,  or  in  some  school  of  physical 
culture,  that  they  might  take  a  war  job  on,  if,  and  when, 
it  was  going. 

Among  all  these  Ian  Stafford  moved  with  an  under- 
current of  agitation  and  anxiety  unseen  in  his  face,  step, 
179 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

motion,  or  gesture.  For  days  he  was  never  near  the 
Foreign  Office,  and  then  for  days  he  was  there  almost  con- 
tinuously; yet  there  was  scarcely  a  day  when  he  did  not 
see  Jasmine.  Also  there  were  few  days  in  the  week  when 
Jasmine  did  not  see  M.  Mennaval,  the  ambassador  for 
Moravia — not  always  at  her  own  house,  but  where  the 
ambassador  chanced  to  be  of  an  evening,  at  a  fashionable 
restaurant,  or  at  some  notable  function.  This  situation 
had  not  been  difficult  to  establish;  and,  once  established, 
meetings  between  the  lady  and  monsieur  were  arranged 
with  that  skill  which  belongs  to  woman  and  to  diplomacy. 

Once  or  twice  at  the  beginning  Jasmine's  chance  ques- 
tion concerning  the  ambassador's  engagements  made  M. 
Mennaval  keen  to  give  information  as  to  his  goings  and 
comings.  Thus  if  they  met  naturally,  it  was  also  so  con- 
stantly that  people  gossiped;  but  at  first,  certainly,  not 
to  Jasmine's  grave  disadvantage,  for  M.  Mennaval  was 
thought  to  be  less  dangerous  than  impressionable. 

In  that,  however,  he  was  somewhat  maligned,  for  his 
penchant  for  beautiful  and  "select"  ladies  had  capacities 
of  development  almost  unguessed.  Previously  Jasmine 
had  never  shown  him  any  marked  preference;  and  when, 
at  first,  he  met  her  in  town  on  her  return  from  Wales  he 
was  no  more  than  watchfully  courteous  and  admiring. 
When,  however,  he  found  her  in  a  receptive  mood,  and 
evidently  taking  pleasure  in  his  society,  his  vanity  ex- 
panded greatly.  He  at  once  became  possessed  by  an 
absorbing  interest  in  the  woman  who,  of  all  others  in  Lon- 
don, had  gifts  which  were  not  merely  physical,  but  of  a 
kind  that  stimulate  the  mind  and  rouse  those  sensi- 
bilities so  easily  dulled  by  dull  and  material  people. 
Jasmine  had  her  material  side;  but  there  was  in  her  the 
very  triumph  of  the  imaginative  also;  and  through  it  the 
material  became  alive,  buoyant  and  magnetic. 

Without  that  magnetic  power  which  belonged  to  the 
sensuous  part  of  her  she  would  not  have  gained  control 
of  M.  Mennaval's  mind,  for  it  was  keen,  suspicious,  almost 
180 


THE    WORLD    WELL   LOST 

abnormally  acute;  and,  while  lacking  real  power,  it  pro- 
tected itself  against  the  power  of  others  by  assembled  and 
well-disciplined  adroitness  and  evasions. 

Very  soon,  however,  Jasmine's  sensitive  beauty,  which 
in  her  desire  to  intoxicate  him  became  voluptuousness, 
enveloped  his  brain  in  a  mist  of  rainbow  reflections.  Under 
her  deft  questions  and  suggestions  he  allowed  her  to  see 
the  springs  of  his  own  diplomacy  and  the  machinery  in- 
side the  Moravian  administration.  She  caught  glimpses 
of  its  ambitions,  its  unscrupulous  use  of  its  position  in 
international  relations,  to  gain  advantage  for  itself,  even 
by  a  dexterity  which  might  easily  bear  another  name, 
and  by  sudden  disregard  of  international  attachments 
not  unlike  treachery. 

Rudyard  was  too  busy  to  notice  the  more  than  cavalier 
attitude  of  M.  Mennaval;  and  if  he  had  noticed  it,  there 
would  have  been  no  intervention.  Of  late  a  lesion  of  his 
higher  moral  sense  made  him  strangely  insensitive  to  ob- 
vious things.  He  had  an  inborn  chivalry,  but  the  finest, 
truest  chivalry  was  not  his — that  which  carefully  protects 
a  woman  from  temptation,  by  keeping  her  unostentatious- 
ly away  from  it;  which  remembers  that  vanity  and  the 
need  for  admiration  drive  women  into  pitfalls  out  of 
which  they  climb  again  maimed  for  life,  if  they  climb  at  all. 

He  trusted  Jasmine  absolutely,  while  there  was,  at  the 
same  time,  a  great  unrest  in  his  heart  and  life — an  unrest 
which  the  accident  at  the  Glencader  Mine,  his  own  share 
in  a  great  rescue,  and  her  gratitude  for  his  safety  did  little 
to  remove.  It  produced  no  more  than  a  passing  effect 
upon  Jasmine  or  upon  himself.  The  very  convention  of 
making  light  of  bravery  and  danger,  which  has  its  value, 
was  in  their  case  an  evil,  preventing  them  from  facing  the 
inner  meaning  of  it  all.  If  they  had  been  less  rich,  if  their 
house  had  been  small,  if  their  acquaintances  had  been 
fewer,  if  ... 

It  was  not  by  such  incidents  that  they  were  to  be 
awakened,  and  with  the  wild  desire  to  make  Stafford 
181 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

grateful  to  her,  and  owe  her  his  success,  the  tragedy 
yonder  must,  in  the  case  of  Jasmine,  have  been  obscured 
and  robbed  of  its  force.  At  Glencader  Jasmine  had  not 
got  beyond  desire  to  satisfy  a  vanity,  which  was  as  deep 
in  her  as  life  itself.  It  was  to  regain  her  hold  upon  a  man 
who  had  once  acknowledged  her  power  and,  in  a  sense, 
had  bowed  to  her  will.  But  that  had  changed,  and,  down 
beneath  all  her  vanity  and  wilfulness,  there  was  now  a 
dangerous  regard  and  passion  for  him  which,  under  happy 
circumstances,  might  have  transformed  her  life — and  his. 
Now  it  all  served  to  twist  her  soul  and  darken  her  foot- 
steps. On  every  hand  she  was  engaged  in  a  game  of  dis- 
simulation, made  the  more  dangerous  by  the  thread  of 
sincerity  and  desire  running  through  it  all.  Sometimes 
she  started  aghast  at  the  deepening  intrigue  gathering 
in  her  path;  at  the  deterioration  in  her  husband;  and  at 
the  hollow  nature  of  her  home  life;  but  the  excitement  of 
the  game  she  was  playing,  the  ardour  of  the  chase,  was  in 
her  veins,  and  her  inherited  spirit  of  great  daring  kept 
her  gay  with  vitality  and  intellectual  adventure. 

Day  after  day  she  had  strengthened  the  cords  by  which 
she  was  drawing  Ian  to  her;  and  in  the  confidence  be- 
gotten of  her  services  to  him,  of  her  influence  upon  M. 
Mennaval  and  the  progress  of  her  efforts,  a  new  intimacy, 
different  from  any  they  had  ever  known,  grew  and  thrived. 
Ian  scarcely  knew  how  powerful  had  become  the  feeling 
between  them.  He  only  realized  that  delight  which  comes 
from  working  with  another  for  a  cherished  cause,  the  goal 
of  one's  life,  which  has  such  deeper  significance  when  the 
partner  in  the  struggle  is  a  woman.  They  both  experi- 
enced that  most  seductive  of  all  influences,  a  secret  knowl- 
edge and  a  pact  of  mutual  silence  and  purpose. 

"You  trust  me  now?"  Jasmine  asked  at  last  one  day, 

when  she  had  been  able  to  assure  Ian  that  the  end  was 

very  near,  that  M.  Mennaval  had  turned  his  face  from 

Slavoma,  and  had  carried  his  government  with  him — al- 

182 


THE    WORLD    WELL    LOST 

most.  In  the  heir-apparent  to  the  throne  of  Moravia, 
whose  influence  with  the  Moravian  Prime  Minister  was 
considerable,  there  still  remained  one  obdurate  element; 
but  lan's  triumph  only  lacked  the  removal  of  this  one 
obstructive  factor,  and  thereafter  England  would  be  secure 
from  foreign  attack,  if  war  came  in  South  Africa.  In  that 
case  lan's  career  might  culminate  at  the  head  of  the  For- 
eign Office  itself,  or  as  representative  of  the  throne  in 
India,  if  he  chose  that  splendid  sphere. 

"You  do  trust  me,  Ian?"  Jasmine  repeated,  with  a  wist- 
fulness  as  near  reality  as  her  own  deceived  soul  could 
permit. 

With  a  sincerity  as  deep  as  one  can  have  who  embarks 
on  enterprises  in  which  one  regrets  the  means  in  con- 
templation of  the  end,  Ian  replied: 

"Yes,  yes,  I  trust  you,  Jasmine,  as  I  used  to  do 
when  I  was  twenty  and  you  were  five.  You  have 
brought  back  the  boy  in  me.  All  the  dreams  of  youth  are 
in  my  heart  again,  all  the  glow  of  the  distant  sky  of  hope. 
I  ff«l  as  though  I  lived  upon  a  hill-top,  under  some  green- 
wood tree,  and — " 

"And  'sported  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade,' "  she  broke 
in  with  a  little  laugh  of  triumph,  her  eyes  brighter  than 
he  had  ever  seen  them.  They  were  glowing  with  a  fire 
of  excitement  which  was  like  a  fever  devouring  the  spirit, 
with  little  dark,  flying  banners  of  fate  or  tragedy  behind. 

Strange  that  he  caught  the  inner  meaning  of  it  as  he 
looked  into  her  eyes  now.  In  the  depths  of  those  eyes, 
where  long  ago  he  had  drowned  his  spirit,  it  was  as  though 
he  saw  an  army  of  reckless  battalions  marching  to  a  great 
battle;  but  behind  all  were  the  black  wings  of  vultures — 
pinions  of  sorrow  following  the  gay  brigades.  Even  as  he 
gazed  at  her,  something  ominous  and  threatening  caught 
his  heart,  and,  with  the  end  of  his  great  enterprise  in  sight, 
a  black  premonition  smothered  him. 

But  with  a  smile  he  said:  "Well,  it  does  look  as  though 
we  are  near  the  end  of  the  journey." 
13  183 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"And  'journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting,' "  she  whispered 
softly,  lowered  her  eyes,  and  then  raised  them  again  to  his. 

The  light  in  them  blinded  him.  Had  he  not  always 
loved  her — before  any  one  came,  before  Rudyard  came, 
before  the  world  knew  her?  All  that  he  had  ever  felt  in 
the  vanished  days  rushed  upon  him  with  intolerable  force. 
Through  his  life-work,  through  his  ambition,  through 
helping  him  as  no  one  else  could  have  done  at  the  time  of 
crisis,  she  had  reached  the  farthest  confines  of  his  nature. 
She  had  woven,  thread  by  thread,  the  magic  carpet  of 
that  secret  companionship  by  which  the  best  as  the  worst 
of  souls  are  sometimes  carried  into  a  land  enchanted — for  a 
brief  moment,  before  Fate  stoops  down  and  hangs  a  veil 
of  plague  over  the  scene  of  beauty,  passion,  and  madness. 

Her  eyes,  full  of  liquid  fire,  met  his.  They  half  closed 
as  her  body  swayed  slightly  towards  him. 

With  a  cry,  almost  rough  in  its  intensity,  he  caught 
her  in  his  arms  and  buried  his  face  in  the  soft  harvest 
of  her  hair.  ' '  Jasmine — Jasmine,  my  love !' '  he  murmured. 

Suddenly  she  broke  from  him.  "Oh  no — oh  no,  Ian! 
The  work  is  not  done.  I  can't  take  my  pay  before  I  have 
earned  it — such  pay — such  pay." 

He  caught  her  hands  and  held  them  fast.  "Nothing 
can  alter  what  is.  It  stands.  Whatever  the  end,  what- 
ever happens  to  the  thing  I  want  to  do,  I — " 

He  drew  her  closer. 

"You  say  this  before  we  know  what  Moravia  will  do; 
you — oh,  Ian,  tell  me  it  is  not  simply  gratitude,  and  be- 
cause I  tried  to  help  you;  not  only  because — " 

He  interrupted  her  with  a  passionate  gesture.  "It  be- 
longed at  first  to  what  you  were  doing  for  me.  Now  it  is 
by  itself,  that  which,  for  good  or  ill,  was  to  be  between 
you  and  me — the  foreordained  thing." 

She  drew  back  her  head  with  a  laugh  of  vanity  and 
pride  and  bursting  joy.  "Ah,  it  doesn't  matter  now!" 
she  said.  "It  doesn't  matter." 

He  looked  at  her  questioningly. 
184 


THE    WORLD    WELL    LOST 

"Nothing  matters  now,"  she  repeated,  less  enigmati- 
cally. She  stretched  her  arms  up  joyously,  radiantly. 

"The  world  well  lost!"  she  cried. 

Her  reckless  mood  possessed  him  also.  They  breathed 
that  air  which  intoxicates,  before  it  turns  heavy  with 
calamity  and  stifles  the  whole  being;  by  which  none  ever 
thrived,  though  many  have  sought  nourishment  in  daring 
draughts  of  it. 

"The  world  well  lost!"  he  repeated;  and  his  lips  sought 
hers. 

Her  determined  patience  had  triumphed.  Hour  by 
hour,  by  being  that  to  his  plans,  to  his  work  of  life,  which 
no  one  else  could  be,  she  had  won  back  what  she  had  lost 
when  the  Rand  had  emptied  into  her  lap  its  millions,  at 
the  bidding  of  her  material  soul.  With  infinite  tact  and 
skill  she  had  accomplished  her  will.  The  man  she  had 
lost  was  hers  again.  What  it  must  mean,  what  it  must 
do,  what  price  must  be  paid  for  this  which  her  spirit  willed 
had  never  yet  been  estimated.  But  her  will  had  been 
supreme,  and  she  took  all  out  of  the  moment  which  was 
possible  to  mortal  pleasure.  , 

Like  the  Columbus,  however,  who  plants  his  flag  upon 
the  cliffs  of  a  new  land,  and  then,  leaving  his  vast  prize 
unharvested,  retreats  upon  the  sea  by  which  he  came,  so 
Ian  suddenly  realized  that  here  was  no  abiding-place  for 
his  love.  It  was  no  home  for  his  faith,  for  those  joys 
which  the  sane  take  gladly,  when  it  is  right  to  take  them, 
and  the  mad  long  for  and  die  for  when  their  madness  be- 
comes unbearable. 

A  cloud  suddenly  passed  over  him,  darkened  his  eyes, 
made  his  bones  like  water.  For,  whatever  might  come, 
he  knew  in  his  heart  of  hearts  that  the  "old  paths"  were 
the  only  paths  which  he  could  tread  in  peace — or  tread  at 
all  without  the  ruin  of  all  he  had  slowly  builded. 

Jasmine,  however,  did  not  see  his  look  or  realize  the 
sudden  physical  change  which  passed  over  him,  leaving 
185 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

him  cold  and  numbed;  for  a  servant  now  entered  with  a 
note. 

Seeing  the  handwriting  on  the  envelope,  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  excitement  and  surprise,  Jasmine  tore  the 
letter  open.  One  glance  was  sufficient. 

"Moravia  is  ours — ours,  Ian!"  she  cried,  and  thrust  the 
letter  into  his  hands. 

"Dearest  lady,"  it  ran,  "the  Crown  has  intervened  successfully. 
The  Heir  Apparent  has  been  set  aside.  The  understanding  may  novr 
be  ratified.  May  I  dine  with  you  to-night? 

"  Yours,         M. 

"P.S. — You  are  the  first  to  know,  but  I  have  also  sent  a  note  to 
our  young  friend,  Ian  Stafford.  Mais,  he  cannot  say,  'Alone  I 
did  it.' 

"M." 

"Thank  God— thank  God,  for  England!"  said  Ian, 
solemnly,  the  greater  thing  in  him  deeply  stirred.  "  Now 
let  war  come,  if  it  must;  for  we  can  do  our  work  without 
interference." 

"Thank  God,"  he  repeated,  fervently,  and  the  light  in 
his  eyes  was  clearer  and  burned  brighter  than  the  fire 
which  had  filled  them  during  the  past  few  moments. 

Then  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms  again. 

As  Ian  drove  swiftly  in  a  hansom  to  the  Foreign  Office, 
his  brain  putting  in  array  and  reviewing  the  acts  which 
must  flow  from  this  international  agreement  now  made 
possible,  the  note  Mennaval  had  written  Jasmine  flashed 
before  his  eyes:  "Dearest  lady.  .  .  .  May  I  dine  with  you 
to-night?  .  .  .  M." 

His  face  flushed.  There  was  something  exceedingly 
familiar — more  in  the  tone  of  the  words  than  the  words 
themselves — which  irritated  and  humiliated  him.  What 
she  had  done  for  him  apparently  warranted  this  intimate, 
self-assured  tone  on  the  part  of  Mennaval,  the  philanderer. 
His  pride  smarted.  His  rose  of  triumph  had  its  thorns. 
1 86 


THE    WORLD    WELL    LOST 

A  letter  from  Mennaval  was  at  the  Foreign  Office  await- 
ing him.  He  carried  it  to  the  Prime  Minister,  who  read 
it  with  grave  satisfaction. 

"It  is  just  in  time,  Stafford,"  he  remarked.  "You  ran 
it  close.  We  will  clinch  it  instantly.  Let  us  have  the 
code." 

As  the  Prime  Minister  turned  over  the  pages  of  the 
code,  he  said,  dryly:  "I  hear  from  Pretoria,  through  Mr. 
Byng,  that  President  Kruger  may  send  the  ultimatum  to- 
morrow. I  fear  he  will  have  the  laugh  on  us,  for  ours  is 
not  ready.  We  have  to  make  sure  of  this  thing  first.  .  .  . 
I  wonder  how  Landrassy  will  take  it." 

He  chuckled  deeply.  "Landrassy  made  a  good  fight, 
but  you  made  a  better  one,  Stafford.  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  you  got  on  in  diplomacy,"  he  added,  with  quizzical 
humour.  .  .  .  "Ah,  here  is  the  code!  Now  to  clinch  it  all 
before  Oom  Paul's  challenge  arrives." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    COMING   OP   THE    BAAS 

THE  Baas— where  the  Baas?" 
Barry  Whalen  turned  with  an  angry  snort  to  the 
figure  in  the  doorway.  "Here's  the  sweet  Krool  again," 
he  said.  "Here's  the  faithful,  loyal  offspring  of  the  Vaal 
and  the  karoo,  the  bulwark  of  the  Baas.  .  .  .  For  God's 
sake  smile  for  once  in  your  life!"  he  growled  with  an  oath, 
and,  snatching  up  a  glass  of  whiskey  and  water,  threw 
the  contents  at  the  half-caste. 

Krool  did  not  stir,  and  some  of  the  liquid  caught  him 
in  the  face.  Slowly  he  drew  out  an  old  yellow  handker- 
chief and  wiped  his  cheeks,  his  eyes  fixed  with  a  kind  of 
impersonal  scrutiny  on  Barry  Whalen  and  the  scene  before 
him. 

The  night  was  well  forward,  and  an  air  of  recklessness 
and  dissipation  pervaded  this  splendid  room  in  De  Lancy 
Scovel's  house.  The  air  was  thick  with  tobacco-smoke, 
trays  were  scattered  about,  laden  with  stubs  of  cigars 
and  ashes,  and  empty  and  half-filled  glasses  were  every- 
where. Some  of  the  party  had  already  gone,  their  gaming 
instinct  satisfied  for  the  night,  their  pockets  lighter  than 
when  they  came;  and  the  tables  where  they  had  sat  were 
in  a  state  of  disorder  more  suggestive  of  a  "dive"  than  of 
the  house  of  one  who  lived  in  Grosvenor  Square. 

No  servant  came  to  clear  away  the  things.  It  was  a 
rule  of  the  establishment  that  at  midnight  the  household 
went  to  bed,  and  the  host  and  his  guests  looked  after 
themselves  thereafter.  The  friends  of  De  Lancy  Scovel 
called  him  "Cupid,"  because  of  his  cherubic  face,  but  he 
1 88 


THE    COMING    OF    THE    BAAS 

was  more  gnome  than  cherub  at  heart.  Having  come  into 
his  fortune  by  being  a  henchman  to  abler  men  than  him- 
self, he  was  almost  over-zealous  to  retain  it,  knowing  that 
he  could  never  get  it  again;  yet  he  was  hospitable  with 
the  income  he  had  to  spend.  He  was  the  Beau  Brummel 
of  that  coterie  which  laid  the  foundation  of  prosperity  on 
the  Rand;  and  his  house  was  a  marvel  of  order  and  crude 
elegance — save  when  he  had  his  roulette  and  poker  parties, 
and  then  it  was  the  shambles  of  murdered  niceties.  Once 
or  twice  a  week  his  friends  met  here;  and  it  was  not 
mendaciously  said  that  small  fortunes  were  lost  and  won 
within  these  walls  "between  drinks." 

The  critical  nature  of  things  on  the  Rand  did  not  lessen 
the  gaming  or  the  late  hours,  the  theatrical  entertain- 
ments and  social  functions  at  which  Al'mah  or  another 
sang  at  a  fabulous  fee;  or  from  which  a  dancer  took  away 
a  pocketful  of  gold — partly  fee.  Only  a  few  of  all  the 
group,  great  and  small,  kept  a  quiet  pace  and  cherished 
their  nerves  against  possible  crisis  or  disaster;  and  these 
were  consumed  by  inward  anxiety,  because  all  the  others 
looked  to  them  for  a  lead,  for  policy,  for  the  wise  act  and 
the  manoeuvre  that  would  win. 

Rudyard  Byng  was  the  one  person  who  seemed  equally 
compacted  of  both  elements.  He  was  a  powerful  figure  in 
the  financial  inner  circle;  but  he  was  one  of  those  who 
frequented  De  Lancy  Scovel's  house;  and  he  had,  in  his 
own  house,  a  roulette-table  and  a  card-room  like  a  ban- 
queting-hall.  Wallstein,  Wolff,  Barry  Whalen,  Fleming, 
Hungerford,  Reuter,  and  the  others  of  the  inner  circle  he 
laughed  at  in  a  good-natured  way  for  coddling  them- 
selves, and  called  them — not  without  some  truth — vale- 
tudinarians. Indeed,  the  hard  life  of  the  Rand  in  the 
early  days,  with  the  bad  liqueur  and  the  high  veld  air, 
had  brought  to  most  of  the  Partners  inner  physical 
troubles  of  some  kind;  and  their  general  abstention  was 
not  quite  voluntary  moral  purpose. 

Of  them  all,  except  De  Lancy  Scovel,  Rudyard  was 
189 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

most  free  from  any  real  disease  or  physical  weakness 
which  could  call  for  the  care  of  a  doctor.  With  a  power- 
ful constitution,  he  had  kept  his  general  health  fairly, 
though  strange  fits  of  depression  had  consumed  him  of  late, 
and  the  old  strong  spring  and  resilience  seemed  going,  if 
not  gone,  from  his  mind  and  body.  He  was  not  that 
powerful  virile  animal  of  the  day  when  he  caught  Al'mah 
in  his  arms  and  carried  her  off  the  stage  at  Covent  Garden. 
He  was  vaguely  conscious  of  the  great  change  in  him, 
and  Barry  Whalen,  who,  with  all  his  faults,  would  have 
gone  to  the  gallows  for  him,  was  ever  vividly  conscious  of 
it,  and  helplessly  resented  the  change.  At  the  time  of  the 
Jameson  Raid  Rudyard  Byng  had  gripped  the  situation 
with  skill,  decision,  and  immense  resource,  giving  as  much 
help  to  the  government  of  the  day  as  to  his  colleagues 
and  all  British  folk  on  the  Rand. 

But  another  raid  was  nearing,  a  raid  upon  British  ter- 
ritory this  time.  The  Rand  would  be  the  centre  of  a 
great  war;  and  Rudyard  Byng  was  not  the  man  he  had 
been,  in  spite  of  his  show  of  valour  and  vigour  at  the  Glen- 
cader  Mine.  Indeed,  that  incident  had  shown  a  certain 
physical  degeneracy — he  had  been  too  slow  in  recovering 
from  the  few  bad  hours  spent  in  the  death-trap.  The 
government  at  Whitehall  still  consulted  him,  still  relied 
upon  his  knowledge  and  his  natural  tact ;  but  secret  as  his 
conferences  were  with  the  authorities,  they  were  not  so 
secret  that  criticism  was  not  viciously  at  work.  Women 
jealous  of  Jasmine,  financiers  envious  of  Rudyard,  Im- 
perial politicians  resentful  of  his  influence,  did  their  best 
to  present  him  in  the  worst  light  possible.  It  was  more 
than  whispered  that  he  sat  too  long  over  his  wine,  and 
that  his  desire  for  fiery  liquid  at  other  than  meal-times 
was  not  in  keeping  with  the  English  climate,  but  belonged 
to  lands  of  drier  weather  and  more  absorptive  air. 

"What  damned  waste!"  was  De  Lancy  Scovel's  at- 
tempt at  wit  as  Krool  dried  his  face  and  put  the  yellow 
190 


THE    COMING   OF   THE    BAAS 

handkerchief  back  into  his  pocket.  The  others  laughed 
idly  and  bethought  themselves  of  their  own  glasses,  arid 
the  croupier  again  set  the  ball  spinning  and  drew  their 
eyes. 

"Faites  vos  jeux!"  the  croupier  called,  monotonously, 
and  the  jingle  of  coins  followed. 

"The  Baas — where  the  Baas?"  came  again  the  harsh 
voice  from  the  doorway. 

"Gone — went  an  hour  ago,"  said  De  Lancy  Scovel, 
coming  forward.  "What  is  it,  Krool?" 

"The  Baas—" 

"The  Baas!"  mocked  Barry  Whalen,  swinging  round 
again.  "The  Baas  is  gone  to  find  a  rope  to  tie  Oom  Paul 
to  a  tree,  as  Oom  Paul  tied  you  at  Lichtenburg." 

Slowly  Krool's  eyes  went  round  the  room,  and  then 
settled  on  Barry  Whalen's  face  with  owl-like  gravity. 
"What  the  Baas  does  goes  good,"  he  said.  "When  the 
Baas  ties,  Alles  zal  recht  kom." 

He  turned  away  now  with  impudent  slowness,  then 
suddenly  twisted  his  body  round  and  made  a  grimace  of 
animal-hatred  at  Barry  Whalen,  his  teeth  showing  like 
those  of  a  wolf. 

"The  Baas  will  live  long  as  he  want,"  he  added, 
"but  Oom  Paul  will  have  your  heart — and  plenty  more," 
he  added,  malevolently,  and  moved  into  the  darkness 
without,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

A  shudder  passed  through  the  circle,  for  the  uncanny 
face  and  the  weird  utterance  had  the  strange  reality  of 
fate.  A  gloom  fell  on  the  gamblers  suddenly,  and  they 
slowly  drew  into  a  group,  looking  half  furtively  at  one 
another. 

The  wheel  turned  on  the  roulette  -  table,  the  ball  clat- 
tered. 

"Rien  ne  va  plus!"  called  the  croupier;  but  no  coins  had 
fallen  on  the  green  cloth,  and  the  wheel  stopped  spinning 
for  the  night,  as  though  by  common  consent. 

"Krool  will  murder  you  some  day,  Barry,"  said  Fleming, 
191 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

with  irritation.  "What's  the  sense  in  saying  things  like 
that  to  a  servant?" 

"How  long  ago  did  Rudyard  leave?"  asked  De  Lancy 
Scovel,  curiously.  "I  didn't  see  him  go.  He  didn't  say 
good-night  to  me.  Did  he  to  you — to  any  of  you?" 

"Yes,  he  said  to  me  he  was  going,"  rejoined  Barry 
Whalen. 

"And  to  me,"  said  Melville,  the  Pole,  who  in  the  early 
days  on  the  Rand  had  been  a  caterer.  His  name  then 
had  been  Joseph  Sobieski,  but  this  not  fitting  well  with 
the  English  language,  he  had  searched  the  directory  of 
London  till  he  found  the  impeachably  English  combina- 
tion of  Clifford  Melville.  He  had  then  cut  his  hair  and 
put  himself  into  the  hands  of  a  tailor  in  Conduit  Street, 
and  they  had  turned  him  into — what  he  was. 

"Yes,  Byng  thed  good-night  to  me — deah  old  boy," 
he  repeated.  " '  I'm  so  damned  thleepy,  and  I  have  to  be 
up  early  in  the  morning,'  he  thed  to  me." 

"Byng's  example's  good  enough.  I'm  off,"  said  Flem- 
ing, stretching  up  his  arms  and  yawning. 

"Byng  ought  to  get  up  earlier  in  the  morning — much 
earlier,"  interposed  De  Lancy  Scovel,  with  a  meaning 
note  in  his  voice. 

"Why?"  growled  out  Barry  Whalen. 

"He'd  see  the  Outlander  early-bird  after  the  young 
domestic  worm,"  was  the  slow  reply. 

For  a  moment  a  curious  silence  fell  upon  the  group.  It 
was  as  though  some  one  had  heard  what  had  been  said — 
some  one  who  ought  not  to  have  heard. 

That  is  exactly  what  had  happened.  Rudyard  had 
not  gone  home.  He  had  started  to  do  so;  but,  remem- 
bering that  he  had  told  Krool  to  come  at  twelve  o'clock 
if  any  cables  arrived,  that  he  might  go  himself  to  the 
cable-office,  if  necessary,  and  reply,  he  passed  from  the 
hallway  into  a  little  room  off  the  card-room,  where  there 
was  a  sofa,  and  threw  himself  down  to  rest  and  think. 
He  knew  that  the  crisis  in  South  Africa  must  come  within 
192 


THE    COMING   OF    THE    BAAS 

a  few  hours ;  that  Oom  Paul  would  present  an  ultimatum 
before  the  British  government  was  ready  to  act;  and  that 
preparations  must  be  made  on  the  morrow  to  meet  all 
chances  and  consequences.  Preparations  there  had  been, 
but  conditions  altered  from  day  to  day,  and  what  had 
been  arranged  yesterday  morning  required  modification 
this  evening. 

He  was  not  heedless  of  his  responsibilities  because  he 
was  at  the  gaming-table;  but  these  were  days  when  he 
could  not  bear  to  be  alone.  Yet  he  could  not  find  pleasure 
in  the  dinner-parties  arranged  by  Jasmine,  though  he 
liked  to  be  with  her — liked  so  much  to  be  with  her,  and 
yet  wondered  how  it  was  he  was  not  happy  when  he  was 
beside  her.  This  night,  however,  he  had  especially  wished 
to  be  alone  with  her,  to  dine  with  her  a  deux,  and  he  had 
been  disappointed  to  find  that  she  had  arranged  a  little 
dinner  and  a  theatre-party.  With  a  sigh  he  had  begged 
her  to  arrange  her  party  without  him,  and,  in  unusual 
depression,  he  had  joined  "the  gang,"  as  Jasmine  called  it, 
at  De  Lancy  Scovel's  house. 

Here  he  moved  in  a  kind  of  gloom,  and  had  a  feeling  as 
though  he  were  walking  among  pitfalls.  A  dread  seemed 
to  descend  upon  him  and  deaden  his  natural  buoyancy. 
At  dinner  he  was  fitful  in  conversation,  yet  inclined  to  be 
critical  of  the  talk  around  him.  Upon  those  who  talked 
excitedly  of  war  and  its  consequences,  with  perverse  spirit 
he  fell  like  a  sledge-hammer,  and  proved  their  information 
or  judgment  wrong.  Then,  again,  he  became  amiable  and 
almost  sentimental  in  his  attitude  toward  them  all,  grip- 
ping the  hands  of  two  or  three  with  a  warmth  which  more 
than  surprised  them.  It  was  as  though  he  was  subcon- 
sciously aware  of  some  great  impending  change.  It  may 
be  there  whispered  through  the  clouded  space  that  lies 
between  the  dwelling-house  of  Fate  and  the  place  where 
a  man's  soul  lives  the  voice  of  that  Other  Self,  which  every 
man  has,  warning  him  of  darkness,  or  red  ruin,  or  a  heart- 
break coming  on. 

193 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

However  that  may  be,  he  had  played  a  good  deal  during 
the  evening,  had  drunk  more  than  enough  brandy  and 
soda,  had  then  grown  suddenly  heavy-hearted  and  inert. 
At  last  he  had  said  good-night,  and  had  fallen  asleep  in 
the  little  dark  room  adjoining  the  card-room. 

Was  it  that  Other  Self  which  is  allowed  to  come  to  us 
as  our  trouble  or  our  doom  approaches,  who  called  sharply 
in  his  ear  as  De  Lancy  Scovel  said,  "Byng  ought  to  get 
up  earlier  in  the  morning — much  earlier." 

Rudyard  wakened  upon  the  words  without  stirring — 
just  a  wide  opening  of  the  eyes  and  a  moveless  body. 
He  listened  with,  as  it  were,  a  new  sense  of  hearing,  so 
acute,  so  clear,  that  it  was  as  though  his  friends  talked 
loudly  in  his  very  ears. 

"He'd  see  the  Outlander  early -bird  after  the  young 
domestic  worm." 

His  heart  beat  so  loud  that  it  seemed  his  friends  must 
hear  it,  in  the  moment's  silence  following  these  suggestive 
words. 

"Here,  there's  enough  of  this,"  said  Barry  Whalen, 
sharply,  upon  the  stillness.  "  It's  nobody's  business,  any- 
how. Let's  look  after  ourselves,  and  we'll  have  enough 
to  do,  or  I  don't  know  any  of  us." 

"But  it's  no  good  pretending,"  said  Fleming.  "There 
isn't  one  of  us  but  'd  put  ourselves  out  a  great  deal  for 
Byng.  It  isn't  human  nature  to  sit  still  and  do  naught, 
and  say  naught,  when  things  aren't  going  right  for  him 
in  the  place  where  things  matter  most. 

"Can't  he  see?  Doesn't  he  see — anything?"  asked  a 
little  wizened  lawyer,  irritably,  one  who  had  never 
been  married,  the  solicitor  of  three  of  their  great  com- 
panies. 

"See — of  course  he  doesn't  see.  If  he  saw,  there'd  be 
hell — at  least,"  replied  Barry  Whalen,  scornfully. 

"He's  as  blind  as  a  bat,"  sighed  Fleming. 

"He  got  into  the  wrong  garden  and  picked  the  wrong 
flower — wrong  for  him,"  said  another  voice. 
194 


THE    COMING    OF    THE    BAAS 

"A  passion-flower,  not  the  flower  her  name  is,"  added 
De  Lancy  Scovel,  with  a  reflective  cynicism. 

"They  thay  there's  no  doubt  about  it — she's  throwing 
herself  away.  Ruddy  isn't  in  it,  deah  old  boy,  so  they 
thay,"  interposed  Clifford  Melville,  alias  Joseph  Sobieski 
of  Posen.  "Diplomathy  is  all  very  well,  but  thith  kind 
of  diplomathy  is  not  good  for  the  thoul."  He  laughed  as 
only  one  of  his  kidney  can  laugh. 

Upon  the  laugh  there  came  a  hoarse  growl  of  anger. 
Barry  Whalen  was  standing  above  Mr.  Clifford  Melville 
with  rage  in  every  fibre,  threat  in  every  muscle. 

"Shut  up — curse  you,  Sobieski!  It's  for  us,  for  any 
and  every  one,  to  cut  the  throats  of  anybody  that  says 
a  word  against  her.  We've  all  got  to  stand  together. 
Byng  forever,  is  our  cry,  and  Byng's  wife  is  Byng — before 
the  world.  We've  got  to  help  him — got  to  help  him,  I 
say." 

"Well,  you've  got  to  tell  him  first.  He's  got  to  know 
it  first,"  interposed  Fleming;  "and  it's  not  a  job  I'm 
taking  on.  When  Byng's  asleep  he  takes  a  lot  of  waking, 
and  he's  asleep  in  this  thing." 

"And  the  world's  too  wide  awake,"  remarked  De  Lancy 
Scovel,  acidly.  "One  way  or  another  Byng's  got  to  be 
waked.  It's  only  him  can  put  it  right." 

No  one  spoke  for  a  moment,  for  all  saw  that  Barry 
Whalen  was  about  to  say  something  important,  coming 
forward  to  the  table  impulsively  for  the  purpose,  when  a 
noise  from  the  darkened  room  beyond  fell  upon  the  silence. 

De  Lancy  Scovel  heard,  Fleming  heard,  others  heard, 
and  turned  towards  the  little  room.  Sobieski  touched 
Barry  Whalen's  arm,  and  they  all  stood  waiting  while  a 
hand  slowly  opened  wide  the  door  of  the  little  room,  and, 
white  with  a  mastered  agitation,  Byng  appeared. 

For  a  moment  he  looked  them  all  full  in  the  face,  yet 
as  though  he  did  not  see  them;  and  then,  without  a  word, 
as  they  stepped  aside  to  make  way  for  him,  he  passed 
down  the  room  to  the  outer  hallway. 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

At  the  door  he  turned  and  looked  at  them  again.  Scorn, 
anger,  pride,  impregnated  with  a  sense  of  horror,  were  in 
his  face.  His  white  lips  opened  to  speak,  but  closed  again, 
and,  turning,  he  stepped  out  of  their  sight. 

No  one  followed.     They  knew  their  man. 

"My  God,  how  he  hates  us!"  said  Barry  Whalen,  and 
sank  into  a  chair  at  the  table,  with  his  head  between  his 
hands. 

The  cheeks  of  the  little  wizened  lawyer  glistened  with 
tears,  and  De  Lancy  Scovel  threw  open  a  window  and 
leaned  out,  looking  into  the  night  remorsefully. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IS   THERE   NO   HELP   FOR  THESE   THINGS? 

SLOWLY,  heavily,  like  one  drugged,  Rudyard  Byng 
made  his  way  through  the  streets,  oblivious  of  all 
around  him.  His  brain  was  like  some  engine  pounding 
at  high  pressure,  while  all  his  body  was  cold  and  lethargic. 
His  anger  at  those  he  left  behind  was  almost  madness, 
his  humiliation  was  unlike  anything  he  had  ever  known. 
In  one  sense  he  was  not  a  man  of  the  world.  All  his 
thoughts  and  moods  and  habits  had  been  essentially 
primitive,  even  in  the  high  social  and  civilized  surroundings 
of  his  youth;  and  when  he  went  to  South  Africa,  it  was 
to  come  into  his  own — the  large,  simple,  rough,  adventur- 
ous life.  His  powerful  and  determined  mind  was  con- 
fined in  its  scope  to  the  big  essential  things.  It  had  a  rare 
political  adroitness,  but  it  had  little  intellectual  subtlety. 
It  had  had  no  preparation  for  the  situation  now  upon  him, 
and  its  accustomed  capacity  was  suddenly  paralyzed. 
Like  some  huge  ship  staggered  by  the  sea,  it  took  its 
punishment  with  heavy,  sullen  endurance.  Socially  he 
had  never,  as  it  were,  seen  through  a  ladder;  and  Jas- 
mine's almost  uncanny  brilliance  of  repartee  and  skill  in 
the  delicate  contest  of  the  mind  had  ever  been  a  wonder 
to  him,  though  less  so  of  late  than  earlier  in  their  married 
life.  Perhaps  this  was  because  his  senses  were  more  used 
to  it,  more  blunted;  or  was  it  because  something  had  gone 
from  her — that  freshness  of  mind  and  body,  that  resilience 
of  temper  and  spirit,  without  which  all  talk  is  travail  and 
weariness?  He  had  never  thought  it  out,  though  he  was 
197 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

dimly  conscious  of  some  great  loss — of  the  light  gone 
from  the  evening  sky. 

Yes,  it  was  always  in  the  evening  that  he  had  most 
longed  to  see  "his  girl";  when  the  day's  work  was  done; 
when  the  political  and  financial  stress  had  subsided;  or 
when  he  had  abstracted  himself  from  it  all  and  turned 
his  face  towards  home.  For  the  big  place  in  Park  Lane 
had  really  been  home  to  him,  chiefly  because,  or  alone 
because,  Jasmine  had  made  it  what  it  was;  because  in 
every  room,  in  every  corner,  was  the  product  of  her  taste 
and  design.  It  had  been  home  because  it  was  associated 
with  her.  But  of  late — ever  since  his  five  months'  visit 
to  South  Africa  without  her  the  year  before — there  had 
come  a  change,  at  first  almost  imperceptible,  then  broad- 
ening and  deepening. 

At  first  it  had  vexed  and  surprised  him;  but  at  length 
it  had  become  a  feeling  natural  to,  and  in  keeping  with, 
a  scheme  of  life  in  which  they  saw  little  of  each  other, 
because  they  saw  so  much  of  other  people.  His  primitive 
soul  had  rebelled  against  it  at  first,  not  bitterly,  but  con- 
fusedly; because  he  knew  that  he  did  not  know  why  it 
was;  and  he  thought  that  if  he  had  patience  he  would 
come  to  understand  it  in  time.  But  the  understanding 
did  not  come,  and  on  that  ominous,  prophetic  day  before 
they  went  to  Glencader,  the  day  when  Ian  Stafford  had 
dined  with  Jasmine  alone  after  their  meeting  in  Regent 
Street,  there  had  been  a  wild,  aching  protest  against  it 
all.  Not  against  Jasmine — he  did  not  blame  her;  he 
only  realized  that  she  was  different  from  what  he  had 
thought  she  was ;  that  they  were  both  different  from  what 
they  had  been;  and  that — the  light  had  gone  from  the 
evening  sky. 

But  from  first  to  last  he  had  always  trusted  her.  It  had 
never  crossed  his  mind,  when  she  "made  up"  to  men  in 
her  brilliant,  provoking,  intoxicating  way,  that  there  was 
any  lack  of  loyalty  to  him.  It  simply  never  crossed  his 
mind.  She  was  his  wife,  his  girl,  his  flower  which  he  had 
198 


IS    THERE    NO    HELP? 

plucked;  and  there  it  was,  for  the  universe  to  see,  for 
the  universe  to  heed  as  a  matter  of  course.  For  himself, 
since  he  had  married  her,  he  had  never  thought  of  another 
woman  for  an  instant,  except  either  to  admire  or  to 
criticize  her;  and  his  criticism  was,  as  Jasmine  had  said, 
"infantile."  The  sum  of  it  was,  he  was  married  to  the 
woman  of  his  choice,  she  was  married  to  the  man  of  her 
choice;  and  there  it  was,  there  it  was,  a  great,  eternal, 
settled  fact.  It  was  not  a  thing  for  speculation  or  doubt 
or  reconsideration. 

Always,  when  he  had  been  troubled  of  late  years,  his 
mind  had  involuntarily  flown  to  South  Africa,  as  a  bird 
flies  to  its  nest  in  the  distant  trees  for  safety,  from  the 
spoiler  or  from  the  storm.  And  now,  as  he  paced  the 
streets  with  heavy,  almost  blundering  tread, — so  did  the 
weight  of  slander  drag  him  down — his  thoughts  suddenly 
saw  a  picture  which  had  gone  deep  down  into  his  soul  in 
far-off  days.  It  was  after  a  struggle  with  Lobengula, 
when  blood  had  been  shed  and  lives  lost,  and  the  back- 
bone of  barbarism  had  been  broken  south  of  the  Zambesi 
for  ever  and  ever  and  ever.  He  had  buried  two  com- 
panions in  arms  whom  he  had  loved  in  that  way  which 
only  those  know  who  face  danger  on  the  plain,  by  the 
river,  in  the  mountain,  or  on  the  open  road  together. 
After  they  had  been  laid  to  rest  in  the  valley  where  the 
great  baboons  came  down  to  watch  the  simple  cortege 
pass,  where  a  stray  lion  stole  across  the  path  leading  to 
the  grave,  he  had  gone  on  alone  to  a  spot  in  the  Matoppos, 
since  made  famous  and  sacred. 

Where  John  Cecil  Rhodes  sleeps  on  that  high  plateau  of 
convex  hollow  stone,  with  the  great  natural  pillars  stand- 
ing round  like  sentinels,  and  all  the  rugged  unfinished  hills 
tumbling  away  to  an  unpeopled  silence,  he  came  that 
time  to  rest  his  sorrowing  soul.  The  woods,  the  wild 
animal  life,  had  been  left  behind,  and  only  a  peaceful 
middle  world  between  God  and  man  greeted  his  stern 
eyes. 

14  I99 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

Now,  here  in  London,  at  that  corner  where  the  lonely 
white  statue  stands  by  Londonderry  House,  as  he  moved 
in  a  dream  of  pain,  with  vast  weights  like  giant  manacles 
hampering  every  footstep,  inwardly  raging  that  into  his 
sweet  garden  of  home  the  vile  elements  of  slander  had  been 
thrown,  yet  with  a  terrible  and  vague  fear  that  something 
had  gone  terribly  wrong  with  him,  that  far-off  day  spent 
at  the  Matoppos  flashed  upon  his  sight. 

Through  streets  upon  streets  he  had  walked,  far,  far 
out  of  his  way,  subconsciously  giving  himself  time  to  re- 
cover before  he  reached  his  home;  until  the  green  quiet  oi 
Hyde  Park,  the  soft  depths  of  its  empty  spaces,  the  com- 
panionable and  commendable  trees,  greeted  his  senses. 
Then,  here,  suddenly  there  swam  before  his  eyes  the  bright 
sky  over  those  scarred  and  jagged  hills  beyond  the  Matop- 
pos, purple  and  grey,  and  red  and  amethyst  and  gold,  and 
his  soul's  sight  went  out  over  the  interminable  distance 
of  loneliness  and  desolation  which  only  ended  where  the 
world  began  again,  the  world  of  fighting  men.  He  saw 
once  more  that  tumbled  waste  of  primeval  creation,  like 
a  crazed  sea  agitated  by  some  Horror  underneath,  and 
suddenly  transfixed  in  its  plunging  turmoil — a  frozen  con- 
crete sorrow,  with  all  active  pain  gone.  He  heard  the 
loud  echo  of  his  feet  upon  that  hollow  plateau  of  rock, 
with  convex  skin  of  stone  laid  upon  convex  skin,  and  then 
suddenly  the  solid  rock  which  gave  no  echo  under  his 
tread,  where  Rhodes  lies  buried.  He  saw  all  at  once,  in 
the  shining  horizon  at  different  points,  black,  angry, 
marauding  storms  arise  and  roar  and  burst:  while  all  the 
time  above  his  head  there  was  nothing  but  sweet  sunshine, 
into  which  the  mists  of  the  distant  storms  drifted,  and 
rainbows  formed  above  him.  Upon  those  hollow  rocks  the 
bellow  of  the  storms  was  like  the  rumbling  of  the  wheels 
of  a  million  gun-carriages;  and  yet  high  overhead  there 
were  only  the  bright  sun  and  faint  drops  of  rain  falling 
like  mystic  pearls. 

And  then  followed — he  could  hear  it  again,  so  plainly, 


IS   THERE   NO   HELP? 

as  his  eyes  now  sought  the  friendly  shades  of  the  beeches 
and  the  elms  yonder  in  Hyde  Park!— upon  the  air  made 
denser  by  the  storm,  the  call  of  a  lonely  bird  from  one  side 
of  the  valley.  The  note  was  deep  and  strong  and  clear, 
like  the  bell-bird  of  the  Australian  salt-bush  plains  be- 
yond the  Darling  River,  and  it  rang  out  across  the  val- 
ley, as  though  a  soul  desired  its  mate;  and  then  was  still. 
A  moment,  and  there  came  across  the  valley  from  the 
other  side,  stealing  deep  sweetness  from  the  hollow  rocks, 
the  answer  of  the  bird  which  had  heard  her  master's 
call.  Answering,  she  called  too,  the  wens  ici  of  kindred 
things:  and  they  came  nearer  and  nearer  and  nearer, 
until  at  last  their  two  voices  were  one. 

In  that  wild  space  there  had  been  worked  out  one  of 
the  great  wonders  of  creation,  and  under  the  dim  lamps  of 
Park  Lane,  in  his  black,  shocked  mood,  Rudyard  recalled 
it  all  by  no  will  of  his  own.  Upon  his  eye  and  brain  the 
picture  had  been  registered,  and  in  its  appointed  time, 
with  an  automatic  suggestion  of  which  he  was  ignorant 
and  innocent,  it  came  to  play  its  part  and  to  transform 
him. 

The  thought  of  it  all  was  like  a  cool  hand  laid  upon  his 
burning  brow.  It  gave  him  a  glimpse  of  the  morning 
of  life. 

The  light  was  gone  from  the  evening  sky:  but  was  it 
gone  forever? 

As  he  entered  his  house  now  he  saw  upon  a  Spanish 
table  in  the  big  hall  a  solitary  bunch  of  white  roses — a 
touch  of  simplicity  in  an  area  of  fine  artifice.  Regarding 
it  a  moment,  black  thoughts  receded,  and  choosing  a 
flower  from  the  vase  he  went  slowly  up  the  stairs  to  Jas- 
mine's room. 

He  would  give  her  this  rose  as  the  symbol  of  his  faith 
and  belief  in  her,  and  then  tell  her  frankly  what  he  had 
heard  at  De  Lancy  Scovel's  house. 

For  the  moment  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  she  might 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

not  be  at  home.  It  gave  him  a  shock  when  he  opened 
the  door  and  found  her  room  empty.  On  her  bed,  like 
a  mesh  of  white  clouds,  lay  the  soft  linen  and  lace  and  the 
delicate  clothes  of  the  night;  and  by  the  bed  were  her 
tiny  blue  slippers  to  match  the  blue  dressing-gown.  Some 
gracious  things  for  morning  wear  hung  over  a  chair;  an 
open  book  with  a  little  cluster  of  violets  and  a  tiny  mirror 
lay  upon  a  table  beside  a  sofa;  a  footstool  was  placed  at 
a  considered  angle  for  her  well-known  seat  on  the  sofa 
where  the  soft-blue  lamp-shade  threw  the  light  upon  her 
book;  and  a  little  desk  with  dresden-china  inkstand  and 
penholder  had  little  pockets  of  ribbon-tied  letters  and 
bills — even  business  had  an  air  of  taste  where  Jasmine 
was.  And  there  on  a  table  beside  her  bed  was  a  large 
silver-framed  photograph  of  himself  turned  at  an  angle 
toward  the  pillow  where  she  would  lay  her  head. 

How  tender  and  delicate  and  innocent  it  all  was!  He 
looked  round  the  room  with  new  eyes,  as  though  seeing 
everything  for  the  first  time.  There  was  another  photo- 
graph of  himself  on  her  dressing-table.  It  had  no  com- 
panion there;  but  on  another  table  near  were  many  photo- 
graphs; four  of  women,  the  rest  of  men:  celebrities,  old 
friends  like  Ian  Stafford — and  M.  Mennaval. 

His  face  hardened.  De  Lancy  Scovel's  black  slander 
swept  through  his  veins  like  fire  again,  his  heart  came  up 
in  his  throat,  his  fingers  clinched. 

Presently,  as  he  stood  with  clouded  face  and  mist  in 
his  eyes,  Jasmine's  maid  entered,  and,  surprised  at  seeing 
him,  retreated  again,  but  her  eyes  fastened  for  a  moment 
strangely  on  the  white  rose  he  held  in  his  hand.  Her 
glance  drew  his  own  attention  to  it  again.  Going 
over  to  the  gracious  and  luxurious  bed,  with  its  blue  silk 
canopy,  he  laid  the  white  rose  on  her  pillow.  Somehow 
it  was  more  like  an  offering  to  the  dead  than  a  lover's 
tribute  to  the  living.  His  eyes  were  fogged,  his  lips  were 
set.  But  all  he  was  then  in  mind  and  body  and  soul  he 
laid  with  the  rose  on  her  pillow. 
202 


IS    THERE    NO   HELP? 

As  he  left  the  rose  there,  his  eyes  wandered  slowly  over 
this  retreat  of  rest  and  sleep:  white  robe-de-nuit,  blue  silk 
canopy,  blue  slippers,  blue  dressing-gown — all  blue,  the 
colour  in  which  he  had  first  seen  her. 

Slowly  he  turned  away  at  last  and  went  to  his  own 
room.  But  the  picture  followed  him.  It  kept  shining 
in  his  eyes.  Krool's  face  suddenly  darkened  it. 

"You  not  ring,  Baas,"  Krool  said. 

Without  a  word  Rudyard  waved  him  away,  a  sudden 
and  unaccountable  fury  in  his  mind.  Why  did  the  sight 
of  Krool  vex  him  so? 

"Come  back,"  he  said,  angrily,  before  the  door  of  the 
bedroom  closed. 

Krool  returned. 

"Weren't  there  any  cables?  Why  didn't  you  come  to 
Mr.  Scovel's  at  midnight,  as  I  told  you?" 

"Baas,  I  was  there  at  midnight,  but  they  all  say  you 
come  home,  Baas.  There  the  cable — two."  He  pointed 
to  the  dressing-table. 

Byng  snatched  them,  tore  them  open,  read  them. 

One  had  the  single  word,  " To-morrow"  The  other 
said,  "Prepare"  The  code  had  been  abandoned.  Trag- 
edy needs  few  words. 

They  meant  that  to-morrow  Kruger's  ultimatum  would 
be  delivered  and  that  the  worst  must  be  faced. 

He  glanced  at  the  cables  in  silence,  svhile  Krool  watched 
him  narrowly,  covertly,  with  a  depth  of  purpose  which 
made  his  face  uncanny. 

"That  will  do,  Krool;  wake  me  at  seven,"  he  said, 
quietly,  but  with  suppressed  malice  in  his  tone. 

Why  was  it  that  at  that  moment  he  could,  with  joy, 
have  taken  Krool  by  the  neck  and  throttled  him?  All 
the  bitterness,  anger  and  rage  that  he  had  felt  an  hour 
ago  concentrated  themselves  upon  Krool — without  reason, 
without  cause.  Or  was  it  that  his  deeper  Other  Self  had 
whispered  something  to  his  mind  about  Krool — something 
terrible  and  malign? 

203 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

In  this  new  mood  he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would 
not  see  Jasmine  till  the  morning.  How  late  she  was! 
It  was  one  o'clock,  and  yet  this  was  not  the  season.  She 
had  not  gone  to  a  ball,  nor  were  these  the  months  of  late 
parties. 

As  he  tossed  in  his  bed  and  his  head  turned  restlessly 
on  his.  pillow,  Krool's  face  kept  coming  before  him,  and 
it  was  the  last  thing  he  saw,  ominous  and  strange,  before 
he  fell  into  a  heavy  but  troubled  sleep. 

Perhaps  the  most  troubled  moment  of  the  night  came 
an  hour  after  he  went  to  bed. 

Then  it  was  that  a  face  bent  over  him  for  a  minute,  a 
fair  face,  with  little  lines  contracting  the  ripe  lips,  which 
were  redder  than  usual,  with  eyes  full  of  a  fevered  bright- 
ness. But  how  harmonious  and  sweetly  ordered  was  the 
golden  hair  above!  Nothing  was  gone  from  its  lustre, 
nothing  robbed  it  of  its  splendour.  It  lay  upon  her  fore- 
head like  a  crown.  In  its  richness  it  seemed  a  little  too 
heavy  for  the  tired  face  beneath,  almost  too  imperial  for 
so  slight  and  delicate  a  figure. 

Rudyard  stirred  in  his  sleep,  murmuring  as  she  leaned 
over  him;  and  his  head  fell  away  from  her  hand  as  she 
stretched  out  her  fingers  with  a  sudden  air  of  pity — of 
hopelessness,  as  it  might  seem  from  her  look.  His  face 
restlessly  turned  to  the  wall — a  vexed,  stormy,  anxious 
face  and  head,  scarred  by  the  whip  of  that  overlord  more 
cruel  and  tyrannous  than  Time,  the  Miserable  Mind. 

She  drew  back  with  a  little  shudder.  "Poor  Ruddy!" 
she  said,  as  she  had  said  that  evening  when  Ian  Stafford 
came  to  her  after  the  estranging  and  scornful  years,  and 
she  had  watched  Rudyard  leave  her — to  her  fate  and  to 
her  folly. 

"Poor  Ruddy!" 

With  a  sudden  frenzied  motion  of  her  hands  she  caught 

her  breath,  as  though  some  pain  had  seized  her.     Her 

eyes  almost  closed  with  the  shame  that  reached  out  from 

her  heart,  as  though  to  draw  the  veil  of  her  eyelids  over 

204 


IS    THERE    NO    HELP? 

the  murdered  thing  before  her — murdered  hope,  slaugh- 
tered peace :  the  peace  of  that  home  they  had  watched  burn 
slowly  before  their  eyes  in  the  years  which  the  locust  had 
eaten. 

Which  the  locust  had  eaten — yes,  it  was  that.  More 
than  once  she  had  heard  Rudyard  tell  of  a  day  on  the 
veld  when  the  farmer  surveyed  his  abundant  fields  with 
joy,  with  the  gay  sun  flaunting  it  above;  and  sud- 
denly there  came  a  white  cloud  out  of  the  west,  which 
made  a  weird  humming,  a  sinister  sound.  It  came  with 
shining  scales  glistening  in  the  light  and  settled  on  the 
land  acre  upon  acre,  morgen  upon  morgen;  and  when  it 
rose  again  the  fields,  ready  for  the  harvest,  were  like  a 
desert — the  fields  which  the  locust  had  eaten.  So  had 
the  years  been,  in  which  Fortune  had  poured  gold  and 
opportunity  and  unlimited  choice  into  her  lap.  She 
had  used  them  all;  but  she  had  forgotten  to  look  for  the 
Single  Secret,  which,  like  a  key,  unlocks  all  doors  in  the 
House  of  Happiness. 

"Poor  Ruddy!"  she  said,  but  even  as  she  said  it  for 
the  second  time  a  kind  of  anger  seemed  to  seize  her. 

"Oh,  you  fool — you  fool!"  she  whispered,  fiercely. 
"What  did  you  know  of  women!  Why  didn't  you  make 
me  be  good?  Why  didn't  you  master  me — the  steel  on 
the  wrist — the  steel  on  the  wrist!" 

With  a  little  burst  of  misery  and  futile  rage  she  went 
from  the  room,  her  footsteps  uneven,  her  head  bent.  One 
of  the  open  letters  she  carried  dropped  from  her  hand  onto 
the  floor  of  the  hall  outside.  She  did  not  notice  it.  But 
as  she  passed  inside  her  door  a  shadowy  figure  at  the 
end  of  the  hall  watched  her,  saw  the  letter  drop,  and 
moved  stealthily  forward  towards  it.  It  was  Krool. 

How  heavy  her  head  was !    Her  worshipping  maid,  near 

dead  with  fatigue,  watched  her  furtively,  but  avoided  the 

eyes  in  the  mirror  which  had  a  half-angry  look,  a  look  at 

once  disturbed  and  elated,  reckless  and  pitiful.    Lablanche 

205 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

was  no  reader  of  souls,  but  there  was  something  here 
beyond  the  usual,  and  she  moved  and  worked  with  un- 
usual circumspection  and  lightness  of  touch.  Presently 
she  began  to  unloose  the  coils  of  golden  hair;  but  Jasmine 
stopped  her  with  a  gesture  of  weariness. 

"No,  don't,"  she  said.  "I  can't  stand  your  touch  to- 
night, Lablanche.  I'll  do  the  rest  myself.  My  head 
aches  so.  Good-night." 

"I  will  be  so  light  with  it,  madame,"  Lablanche  said, 
protestingly. 

"No,  no.     Please  go.     But  the  morning,  quite  early." 

"The  hour,  madame?" 

"When  the  letters  come,  as  soon  as  the  letters  come, 
Lablanche — the  first  post.  Wake  me  then." 

She  watched  the  door  close,  then  turned  to  the  mirror 
in  front  of  her  and  looked  at  herself  with  eyes  in  which 
brooded  a  hundred  thoughts  and  feelings:  thoughts  con- 
tradictory, feelings  opposed,  imaginings  conflicting,  re- 
flections that  changed  with  each  moment;  and  all  under 
the  spell  of  a  passion  which  had  become  in  the  last  few 
hours  the  most  powerful  influence  her  life  had  ever  known. 
Right  or  wrong,  and  it  was  wrong,  horribly  wrong;  wise 
or  unwise,  and  how  could  the  wrong  be  wise!  she  knew 
she  was  under  a  spell  more  tyrannous  than  death,  de- 
manding more  sacrifices  than  the  gods  of  Hellas. 

Self-indulgent  she  had  been,  reckless  and  wilful  and 
terribly  modern,  taking  sweets  where  she  found  them. 
She  had  tried  to  squeeze  the  orange  dry,  in  the  vain  belief 
that  Wealth  and  Beauty  can  take  what  they  want,  when 
they  want  it,  and  that  happiness  will  come  by  purchase; 
only  to  find  one  day  that  the  thing  you  have  bought,  like 
a  slave  that  revolts,  stabs  you  in  your  sleep,  and  you  wake 
with  wide-eyed  agony  only  to  die,  or  to  live — with  the 
light  gone  from  the  evening  sky. 

Suddenly,  with  the  letters  in  her  hand  with  which  she 
had  entered  the  room,  she  saw  the  white  rose  on  her  pil- 
low. Slowly  she  got  up  from  the  dressing-table  and  went 
206 


IS    THERE    NO    HELP? 

over  to  the  bed  in  a  hushed  kind  of  way.  With  a  strange, 
inquiring,  half-shrinking  look  she  regarded  the  flower. 
One  white  rose.  It  was  not  there  when  she  left.  It  had 
been  brought  from  the  hall  below,  from  the  great  bunch 
on  the  Spanish  table.  Those  white  roses,  this  white  rose, 
had  come  from  one  who,  selfish  as  he  was,  knew  how  to 
flatter  a  woman's  vanity.  From  that  delicate  tribute  of 
flattery  and  knowledge  Rudyard  had  taken  this  flowering 
stem  and  brought  it  to  her  pillow. 

It  was  all  too  malevolently  cynical.  Her  face  con- 
tracted in  pain  and  shame.  She  had  a  soul  to  which  she 
had  never  given  its  chance.  It  had  never  bloomed.  Her 
abnormal  wilfulness,  her  insane  love  of  pleasure,  her 
hereditary  impulses,  had  been  exercised  at  the  expense 
of  the  great  thing  in  her,  the  soul  so  capable  of  memo- 
rable and  beautiful  deeds. 

As  she  looked  at  the  flower,  a  sense  of  the  path  by  which 
she  had  come,  of  what  she  had  left  behind,  of  what  was 
yet  to  chance,  shuddered  into  her  heart. 

That  a  flower  given  by  Adrian  Fellowes  should  be  laid 
upon  her  pillow  by  her  husband,  by  Rudyard  Byng,  was 
too  ghastly  or  too  devilishly  humorous  for  words;  and 
both  aspects  of  the  thing  came  to  her.  Her  face  became 
white,  and  almost  mechanically  she  put  the  letters  she 
held  on  a  writing-table  near;  then  coming  to  the  bed  again 
she  looked  at  the  rose  with  a  kind  of  horror.  Suddenly, 
however,  she  caught  it  up,  and  bursting  into  a  laugh  which 
was  shrill  and  bitter  she  threw  it  across  the  room.  Still 
laughing  hysterically,  with  her  golden  hair  streaming 
about  her  head,  folding  her  round  like  a  veil  which  reached 
almost  to  her  ankles,  she  came  back  to  the  chair  at  the 
dressing-table  and  sat  down. 

Slowly  drawing  the  wonderful  soft  web  of  hair  over 
her  shoulders,  she  began  to  weave  it  into  one  wide  strand, 
which  grew  and  grew  in  length  till  it  was  like  a  great  rope 
of  spun  gold.  Inch  by  inch,  foot  by  foot  it  grew,  until  at 
last  it  lay  coiled  in  her  lap  like  a  golden  serpent,  with  a 
207 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

kind  of  tension  which  gave  it  life,  such  as  Medusa's  hair 
must  have  known  as  the  serpent-life  entered  into  it. 
There  is — or  was — in  Florence  a  statue  of  Medusa,  seated, 
in  her  fingers  a  strand  of  her  hair,  which  is  beginning  to 
coil  and  bend  and  twist  before  her  horror-stricken  eyes: 
and  this  statue  flashed  before  Jasmine's  eyes  as  she  looked 
at  the  loose  ends  of  gold  falling  beyond  the  blue  ribbon 
with  which  she  had  tied  the  shining  rope. 

With  the  mad  laughter  of  a  few  moments  before  still 
upon  her  lips,  she  held  the  flying  threads  in  her  hand,  and 
so  strained  was  her  mind  that  it  would  not  have  caused 
her  surprise  if  they  had  wound  round  her  fingers  or  given 
forth  forked  tongues.  She  laughed  again — a  low  and  dis- 
cordant laugh  it  was  now. 

"Such  imaginings — I  think  I  must  be  mad,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

Then  she  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  dressing-table  and 
looked  at  herself  in  the  glass. 

"Am  I  not  mad?"  she  asked  herself  again.  Then  there 
stole  across  her  face  a  strange,  far-away  look,  bringing  a 
fresh  touch  of  beauty  to  it,  and  flooding  it  for  a  moment 
with  that  imaginative  look  which  had  been  her  charm  as 
a  girl,  a  look  of  far-seeing  and  wonder  and  strange  light. 
"  ,"I  wonder — if  I  had  had  a  mother!"  she  said,  wistfully, 
her  chin  in  her  hand.  "If  my  mother  had  lived,  what 
would  I  have  been?" 

She  reached  out  to  a  small  table  near,  and  took  from  it 
a  miniature  at  which  she  looked  with  painful  longing. 
"My  dear,  my  very  dear,  you  were  so  sweet,  so  good," 
she  said.  "Am  I  your  daughter,  your  own  daughter — 
me?  Ah,  sweetheart  mother,  come  back  to  me!  For 
God's  sake  come — now.  Speak  to  me  if  you  can. 
Are  you  so  very  far  away?  Whisper — only  whisper,  and 
I  shall  hear. 

"Oh,  she  would,  she  would,  if  she  could!"  her  voice 
wailed,  softly.  "She  would  if  she  could,  I  know.  I  was 
her  youngest  child,  her  only  little  girl.  But  there  is  no 
208 


IS    THERE    NO    HELP? 

coming  back.  And  maybe  there  is  no  going  forth;  only 
a  blackness  at  the  last,  when  all  stops — all  stops,  for  ever 
and  ever  and  ever,  amen!  .  .  .Amen — so  be  it.  Ah,  I 
even  can't  believe  in  that!  I  can't  even  believe  in  God 
and  Heaven  and  the  hereafter.  I  am  a  pagan,  with  a 
pagan's  heart  and  a  pagan's  ways." 

She  shuddered  again  and  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment. 
"Ruddy  had  a  glimpse,  one  glimpse,  that  day,  the  day 
that  Ian  came  back.  Ruddy  said  to  me  that  day,  '// 
you  had  lived  a  thousand  years  ago  you  would  have  had  a 
thousand  lovers.'  .  .  .  And  it  is  true — by  all  the  gods  of  all 
the  worlds,  it  is  true.  Pleasure,  beauty,  is  all  I  ever  cared 
for — pleasure,  beauty,  and  the  Jasmine-flower.  And  Ian 
— and  Ian,  yes,  Ian !  I  think  I  had  soul  enough  for  one 
true  thing,  even  if  I  was  not  true." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  for  a  moment,  as  though 
to  hide  a  great  burning. 

"But,  oh,  I  wonder  if  I  did  ever  love  Ian,  even!  I 
wonder.  .  .  .  Not  then,  not  then  when  I  deserted  him  and 
married  Rudyard,  but  now — now?  Do — do  I  love  him 
even  now,  as  we  were  to-day  with  his  arms  round  me,  or 
is  it  only  beauty  and  pleasure  and — me?  .  .  .  Are  they 
really  happy  who  believe  in  God  and  live  like — like  her?' 
She  gazed  at  her  mother's  portrait  again.  "Yes,  she  was 
happy,  but  only  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  was  gone — 
so  soon.  And  I  shall  never  see  her,  I  who  never  saw  her 
with  eyes  that  recall. . . .  And  if  I  could  see  her,  would  I  ?  I 
am  a  pagan — would  I  try  to  be  like  her,  if  I  could  ?  I  never 
really  prayed,  because  I  never  truly  felt  there  was  a  God 
that  was  not  all  space,  and  that  was  all  soul  and  understand- 
ing. And  what  is  to  come  of  it,  or  what  will  become  of  me  ? 
...  I  can't  go  back,  and  going  on  is  madness.  Yes,  yes, 
it  is  madness,  I  know — madness  and  badness — and  dust 
at  the  end  of  it  all.  Beauty  gone,  pleasure  gone.  ...  I 
do  not  even  love  pleasure  now  as  I  did.  It  has  lost  its 
flavour;  and  I  do  not  even  love  beauty  as  I  did.  How 
well  I  know  it!  I  used  to  climb  hills  to  see  a  sunset;  I 
209 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

used  to  walk  miles  to  find  the  wood  anemones  and  the 
wild  violets;  I  used  to  worship  a  pretty  child  ...  a  pretty 
child!" 

She  shrank  back  in  her  chair  and  pondered  darkly. 
"A  pretty  child.  .  .  .  Other  people's  pretty  children,  and 
music  and  art  and  trees  and  the  sea,  and  the  colours  of 
the  hills,  and  the  eyes  of  wild  animals  .  .  .  and  a  pretty 
child.  I  wonder,  I  wonder  if — 

But  she  got  no  farther  with  that  thought.  "I  shall 
hate  everything  on  earth  if  it  goes  from  me,  the  beauty 
of  things;  and  I  feel  that  it  is  going.  The  freshness  of 
sense  has  gone,  somehow.  I  am  not  stirred  as  I  used  to 
be,  not  by  the  same  things.  If  I  lose  that  sense  I  shall 
kill  myself.  Perhaps  that  would  be  the  easiest  way  now. 
Just  the  overdose  of — 

She  took  a  little  phial  from  the  drawer  of  the  dressing- 
table.  "Just  the  tiny  overdose  and  'good-bye,  my  lover, 
good-bye.'"  Again  that  hard  little  laugh  of  bitterness 
broke  from  her.  "Or  that  needle  Mr.  Mappin  had  at 
Glencader.  A  thrust  of  the  point,  and  in  an  instant  gone, 
and  no  one  to  know,  no  one  to  discover,  no  one  to  add 
blame  to  blame,  to  pile  shame  upon  shame.  Just  black- 
ness— blackness  all  at  once,  and  no  light  or  anything  any 
more.  The  fruit  all  gone  from  the  trees,  the  garden  all 
withered,  the  bower  all  ruined,  the  children  all  dead — 
the  pretty  children  all  dead  forever,  the  pretty  children 
that  neyer  were  born,  that  never  lived  in  Jasmine's 
garden." 

As  there  had  come  to  Rudyard  premonition  of  evil,  so 
to-night,  in  the  hour  of  triumph,  when,  beyond  perad ven- 
ture, she  had  got  for  Ian  Stafford  what  would  make  his 
career  great,  what  through  him  gave  England  security  in 
her  hour  of  truth,  there  came  now  to  her  something  of  the 
real  significance  of  it  all. 

She  had  got  what  she  wanted.  Her  pride  had  been 
appeased,  her  vanity  satisfied,  her  intellect  flattered,  her 
skill  approved,  and  Ian  was  hers.  But  the  cost  ? 


IS    THERE    NO    HELP? 

Words  from  Swinburne's  threnody  on  Baudelaire  came 
to  her  mind.  How  often  she  had  quoted  them  for  their 
sheer  pagan  beauty!  It  was  the  kind  of  beauty  which 
most  appealed  to  her,  which  responded  to  the  element 
of  fatalism  in  her,  the  sense  of  doom  always  with  her 
since  she  was  a  child,  in  spite  of  her  gaiety,  her  wit,  and 
her  native  eloquence.  She  had  never  been  happy,  she 
had  never  had  a  real  illusion,  never  aught  save  the  passion 
of  living,  the  desire  to  conquer  unrest: 

"And  now,  no  sacred  staff  shall  break  in  blossom, 
No  choral  salutation  lure  to  light 
The  spirit  sick  with  perfume  and  sweet  night, 
And  Love's  tired  eyes  and  hands  and  barren  bosom. 
There  is  no  help  for  these  things,  none  to  mend  and  none  to  mar; 
Not  all  our  songs,  oh,  friend,  can  make  Death  clear  or  make  Life 

durable ; 

But  still  with  rose  and  ivy  and  wild  vine, 
And  with  wild  song  about  this  dust  of  thine, 
At  least  I  fill  a  place  where  white  dreams  dwell, 
And  wreathe  an  unseen  shrine." 

'"And  Love's  tired  eyes  and  hands  and  barren  bosom. 
.  .  .  There  is  no  help  for  these  things,  none  to  mend  and 
none  to  mar.  .  .  .'"  A  sob  rose  in  her  throat.  "Oh,  the 
beauty  of  it,  the  beauty  and  the  misery  and  the  despair 
of  it!"  she  murmured. 

Slowly  she  wound  and  wound  the  coil  of  golden  hair 
about  her  neck,  drawing  it  tighter,  fold  on  fold,  tighter 
and  tighter. 

"This  would  be  the  easiest  way — this,"  she  whispered. 
"By  my  own  hair!  Beauty  would  have  its  victim  then. 
No  one  would  kiss  it  any  more,  because  it  killed  a  woman. 
.  .  .  No  one  would  kiss  it  any  more." 

She  felt  the  touch  of  Ian  Stafford's  lips  upon  it,  she  felt 
his  face  buried  in  it.  Her  own  face  suffused,  then  Adrian 
Fellowes'  white  rose,  which  Rudyard  had  laid  upon  her 
pillow,  caught  her  eye  where  it  lay  on  the  floor.  With  a 
cry  as  of  a  hurt  animal  she  ran  to  her  bed,  crawled  into  it, 
and  huddled  down  in  the  darkness,  shivering  and  afraid. 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

Something  had  discovered  her  to  herself  for  the  first 
time.  Was  it  her  own  soul  ?  Had  her  Other  Self,  waking 
from  sleep  in  the  eternal  spaces,  bethought  itself  and  come 
to  whisper  and  warn  and  help?  Or  was  it  Penalty,  or 
Nemesis,  or  that  Destiny  which  will  have  its  toll  for  all 
it  gives  of  beauty,  or  pleasure,  or  pride,  or  place,  or 
pageantry? 

"Love's  tired  eyes  and  hands  and  barren  bosom" — 
The  words  kept  ringing  in  her  ears.     They  soothed  her 
at  last  into  a  sleep  which  brought  no  peace,  no  rest  or 
repose. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
LANDRASSY'S  LAST  STROKE 

MIDNIGHT — one  o'clock,  two  o'clock,  three  o'clock. 
Big  Ben  boomed  the  hours,  and  from  St.  James's 
Palace  came  the  stroke  of  the  quarters,  lighter,  quicker, 
almost  pensive  in  tone.  From  St.  James's  Street  below 
came  no  sounds  at  last.  The  clatter  of  the  hoofs  of 
horses  had  ceased,  the  rumble  of  drays  carrying  their 
night  freights,  the  shouts  of  the  newsboys  making  sensa- 
tion out  of  rumours  made  in  a  newspaper  office,  had  died 
away.  Peace  came,  and  a  silver  moon  gave  forth  a  soft 
light,  which  embalmed  the  old  thoroughfare,  and  added 
a  tenderness  to  its  workaday  dignity.  In  only  one  win- 
dow was  there  a  light  at  three  o'clock.  It  was  the  window 
of  Ian  Stafford's  sitting-room. 

He  had  not  left  the  Foreign  Office  till  nearly  ten  o'clock, 
then  had  had  a  light  supper  at  his  club,  had  written 
letters  there,  and  after  a  long  walk  up  and  down  the  Mall 
had,  with  reluctant  feet,  gone  to  his  chambers. 

The  work  which  for  years  he  had  striven  to  do  for  Eng- 
land had  been  accomplished.  The  Great  Understanding 
was  complete.  In  the  words  of  the  secretary  of  the 
American  Embassy,  "  Mennaval  had  delivered  the  goods," 
and  an  arrangement  had  been  arrived  at,  completed  this 
very  night,  which  would  leave  England  free  to  face  her 
coming  trial  in  South  Africa  without  fear  of  trouble  on 
the  flank  or  in  the  rear. 

The  key  was  turned  in  the  lock,  and  that  lock  had  been 
the  original  device  and  design  of  Ian  Stafford.  He  had 
done  a  great  work  for  civilization  and  humanity;  he  had 
213 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

made  improbable,  if  not  impossible,  a  European  war. 
The  Kaiser  knew  it,  Franz  Joseph  knew  it,  the  Czar  knew 
it ;  the  White  House  knew  it,  and  its  master  nodded  with 
satisfaction,  for  John  Bull  was  waking  up — "getting  a 
move  on."  America  might  have  her  own  family  quarrel 
with  John  Bull,  but  when  it  was  John  Bull  versus  the  world, 
not  even  James  G.  Elaine  would  have  been  prepared  to 
see  the  old  lion  too  deeply  wounded.  Even  Landrassy, 
ambassador  of  Slavonia,  had  smiled  grimly  when  he  met 
Ian  Stafford  on  the  steps  of  the  Moravian  Embassy.  He 
was  artist  enough  to  appreciate  a  well-played  game,  and, 
in  any  case,  he  had  had  done  all  that  mortal  man  could 
in  the  way  of  intrigue  and  tact  and  device.  He  had 
worked  the  international  press  as  well  as  it  had  ever 
been  worked;  he  had  distilled  poison  here  and  rosewater 
there;  he  had  again  and  again  baffled  the  British  Foreign 
Office,  again  and  again  cut  the  ground  from  under  Ian 
Stafford's  feet;  and  if  he  could  have  staved  off  the  pact, 
the  secret  international  pact,  by  one  more  day,  he  would 
have  gained  the  victory  for  himself,  for  his  country,  for 
the  alliance  behind  him. 

One  day,  but  one  day,  and  the  world  would  never  have 
heard  of  Ian  Stafford.  England  would  then  have  ap- 
proached her  conflict  with  the  cup  of  trembling  at  her 
lips,  and  there  would  be  a  new  disposition  of  power  in 
Europe,  a  new  dominating  force  in  the  diplomacy  and  the 
relations  of  the  peoples  of  the  world.  It  was  Landrassy's 
own  last  battle-field  of  wit  and  scheming,  of  intellect  and 
ambition.  If  he  failed  in  this,  his  sun  would  set  soon. 
He  was  too  old  to  carry  on  much  longer.  He  could  not 
afford  to  wait.  He  was  at  the  end  of  his  career,  and  he 
had  meant  this  victory  to  be  the  crown  of  his  long  ser- 
vices to  Slavonia  and  the  world. 

But  to  him  was  opposed  a  man  who  was  at  the  be- 
ginning of  his  career,  who  needed  this  victory  to  give  him 
such  a  start  as  few  men  get  in  that  field  of  retarded  re- 
wards, diplomacy.  It  had  been  a  man  at  the  end  of  the 
214 


LANDRASSY'S    LAST    STROKE 

journey,  and  a  man  at  the  beginning,  measuring  skill, 
playing  as  desperate  a  game  as  was  ever  played.  If 
Landrassy  won — Europe  a  red  battle-field,  England  at 
bay;  if  Ian  Stafford  won — Europe  at  peace,  England  se- 
cure. Ambition  and  patriotism  intermingled,  and  only 
He  who  made  human  nature  knew  how  much  was  pure 
patriotism  and  how  much  pure  ambition.  It  was  a  great 
stake.  On  this  day  of  days  to  Stafford  destiny  hung 
shivering,  each  hour  that  passed  was  throbbing  with 
unparalleled  anxiety,  each  minute  of  it  was  to  be  the 
drum -beat  of  a  funeral  march  or  the  note  of  a  Te 
Deum. 

Not  more  uncertain  was  the  roulette-wheel  spinning 
in  De  Lancy  Scovel's  house  than  the  wheel  of  diplomacy 
which  Ian  Stafford  had  set  spinning.  Rouge  et  noir — it 
was  no  more,  no  less.  But  Ian  had  won;  England  had 
won.  Black  had  been  beaten. 

Landrassy  bowed  suavely  to  Ian  as  they  met  outside 
Mennaval's  door  in  the  early  evening  of  this  day  when 
the  business  was  accomplished,  the  former  coming  out, 
the  latter  going  in. 

"Well,  Stafford,"  Landrassy  said  in  smooth  tones  and 
with  a  jerk  of  the  head  backward,  "the  tables  are  deserted, 
the  croupier  is  going  home.  But  perhaps  you  have  not 
come  to  play?" 

Ian  smiled  lightly.  "I've  come  to  get  my  winnings — 
as  you  say,"  he  retorted. 

Landrassy  seemed  to  meditate  pensively.  "Ah  yes, 
ah  yes,  but  I'm  not  sure  that  Mennaval  hasn't  bolted  with 
the  bank  and  your  winnings,  too!" 

His  meaning  was  clear — and  hateful.  Before  Ian  had 
a  chance  to  reply,  Landrassy  added  in  a  low,  confidential 
voice,  saturated  with  sardonic  suggestion,  "To  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  had  ceased  to  reckon  with  women  in  di- 
plomacy. I  thought  it  was  dropped  with  the  Second 
Empire;  but  you  have  started  a  new  dispensation — 
evidemment,  emdemment.  Still  Mennaval  goes  home  with 
15  215 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

your  winnings.  Eh  bien,  we  have  to  pay  for  our  game! 
Allans  gai!" 

Before  Ian  could  reply — and  what  was  there  to  say  to 
insult  couched  in  such  highly  diplomatic  language  ? — Lan- 
drassy  had  stepped  sedately  away,  swinging  his  gold- 
headed  cane  and  humming  to  himself. 

"Duelling  had  its  merits,"  Ian  said  to  himself,  as  soon 
as  he  had  recovered  from  the  first  effect  of  the  soft,  savage 
insolence.  "There  is  no  way  to  deal  with  our  Landrassys 
except  to  beat  them,  as  I  have  done,  in  the  business  of 
life." 

He  tossed  his  head  with  a  little  pardonable  pride,  as  it 
were,  to  soothe  his  heart,  and  then  went  in  to  Mcnnaval. 
There,  in  the  arrangements  to  be  made  with  Moravia  he 
forgot  the  galling  incident;  and  for  hours  afterward  it 
was  set  aside.  When,  however,  he  left  his  club,  his 
supper  over,  after  scribbling  letters  which  he  put  in  his 
pocket  absent-mindedly,  and  having  completed  his  work 
at  the  Foreign  Office,  it  came  back  to  his  mind  with  sudden 
and  scorching  force. 

Landrassy's  insult  to  Jasmine  rankled  as  nothing  had 
ever  rankled  in  his  mind  before,  not  even  that  letter  which 
she  had  written  him  so  long  ago  announcing  her  intended 
marriage  to  Byng.  He  was  fresh  from  the  first  triumph 
of  his  life:  he  ought  to  be  singing  with  joy,  shouting  to  the 
four  corners  of  the  universe  his  pride,  walking  on  air, 
finding  the  world  a  good,  kind  place  made  especially  for 
him — his  oyster  to  open,  his  nut  which  he  had  cracked; 
yet  here  he  was  fresh  from  the  applause  of  his  chief,  with 
a  strange  heaviness  at  his  heart,  a  gloom  upon  his  mind. 

Victory  in  his  great  fight — and  love;  he  had  them  both; 
and  so  he  said  to  himself  as  he  opened  the  door  of  his 
rooms  and  entered  upon  their  comfort  and  quiet.  He 
had  love,  and  he  had  success;  and  the  one  had  helped  to 
give  him  the  other,  helped  in  a  way  which  was  wonderful, 
and  so  brilliantly  skilful  and  delicate.  As  he  poured  out 
a  glass  of  water,  however,  the  thought  stung  him  that  the 
216 


LANDRASSY'S    LAST    STROKE 

nature  of  the  success  and  its  value  depended  on  the  nature 
of  the  love  and  its  -value.  As  the  love  was,  so  was  the 
success,  no  higher,  no  different,  since  the  one,  in  some 
deep  way,  begot  the  other.  Yes,  it  was  certain  that  the 
thing  could  not  have  been  done  at  this  time  without 
Jasmine,  and  if  not  at  this  time,  then  the  chances  were  a 
thousand  to  one  that  it  never  could  be  done  at  any  time; 
for  Britain's  enemies  would  be  on  her  back  while  she 
would  have  to  fight  in  South  Africa.  The  result  of  that 
would  mean  a  shattered,  humiliated  land,  with  a  people 
in  pawn  to  the  will  of  a  rising  power  across  the  northern 
sea.  That  it  had  been  prevented  just  in  the  nick  of  time 
was  due  to  Jasmine,  his  fate,  the  power  that  must  beat  in 
his  veins  till  the  end  of  all  things. 

Yet  what  was  the  end  to  be?  To-day  he  had  buried  his 
face  in  her  wonderful  cloud  of  hair  and  had  kissed  her; 
and  with  it,  almost  on  the  instant,  had  come  the  end  of 
his  great  struggle  for  England  and  himself;  and  for  that 
he  was  willing  to  pay  any  price  that  time  and  Nemesis 
might  demand — any  price  save  one. 

As  he  thought  of  that  one  price  his  lips  tightened,  his 
brow  clouded,  his  eyes  half  closed  with  shame. 

Rudyard  Byng  was  his  friend,  whose  bread  he  had 
eaten,  whom  he  had  known  since  they  were  boys  at 
school.  He  remembered  acutely  Rudyard's  words  to 
him  that  fateful  night  when  he  had  dined  with  Jasmine 
alone — "You  will  have  much  to  talk  about,  to  say  to 
each  other,  such  old  friends  as  you  are."  He  recalled 
how  Rudyard  had  left  them,  trusting  them,  happy  in  the 
thought  that  Jasmine  would  have  a  pleasant  evening  with 
the  old  friend  who  had  first  introduced  him  to  her,  and 
that  the  old  friend  would  enjoy  his  eager  hospitality. 
Rudyard  had  blown  his  friend's  trumpet  wherever  men 
would  listen  to  him;  had  proclaimed  Stafford  as  the 
coming  man;  and  this  was  what  he  had  done  to  Rud- 
yard! 

This  was  what  he  had  done;  but  what  did  he  propose 
217 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

to  do?  What  of  the  future?  To  go  on  in  miserable  in- 
trigue, twisting  the  nature,  making  demands  upon  life 
out  of  all  those  usual  ways  in  which  walk  love  and 
companionship  —  paths  that  lead  through  gardens  of 
poppies,  maybe,  but  finding  grey  wilderness  at  the  end? 
Never,  never  the  right  to  take  the  loved  one  by  the  hand 
before  all  the  world  and  say:  "We  two  are  one,  and  the 
reckoning  of  the  world  must  be  made  with  both."  Never 
to  have  the  right  to  stand  together  in  pride  before  the 
wide-eyed  many  and  say:  "See  what  you  choose  to  see, 
say  what  you  choose  to  say,  do  what  you  choose  to  do, 
we  do  not  care."  The  open  sharing  of  worldly  success; 
the  inner  joys  which  the  world  may  not  see — these  things 
could  not  be  for  Jasmine  and  for  him. 

Yet  he  loved  her.  Every  fibre  in  his  being  thrilled  to 
the  thought  of  her.  But  as  his  passion  beat  like  wild 
music  in  his  veins,  a  blindness  suddenly  stole  into  his 
sight,  and  in  deep  agitation  he  got  up,  opened  the  window, 
and  looked  out  into  the  night.  For  long  he  stood  gazing 
into  the  quiet  street,  and  watched  a  daughter  of  the  night, 
with  dilatory  steps  and  neglected  mien,  go  up  towards  the 
more  frequented  quarter  of  Piccadilly.  Life  was  gnm  in 
so  much  of  it,  futile  in  more,  feeble  at  the  best,  foolish  in 
the  light  of  a  single  generation  or  a  single  century  or  a 
thousand  years.  It  was  only  reasonable  in  the  vast  pro- 
portions of  eternity.  It  had  only  little  sips  of  happiness 
to  give,  not  long  draughts  of  joy.  Who  drank  deep,  long 
draughts — who  of  all  the  men  and  women  he  had  ever 
known?  Who  had  had  the  primrose  path  without  the 
rain  of  fire,  the  cinders  beneath  the  feet,  the  gins  and  the 
nets  spread  for  them? 

Yet  might  it  not  be  that  here  and  there  people  were 
permanently  happy?  And  had  things  been  different, 
might  not  he  and  Jasmine  have  been  of  the  radiant  few? 
He  desired  her  above  all  things;  he  was  willing  to  sacri- 
fice all — all  for  her,  if  need  be;  and  yet  there  was  that 
which  he  could  not,  would  not  face.  All  or  nothing — all 
218 


LANDRASSY'S    LAST    STROKE 

or  nothing.     If  he  must  drink  of  the  cup  of  sorrow  and 
passion  mixed,  then  it  would  be  from  the  full  cup. 

With  a  stifled  exclamation  he  sat  down  and  began  to 
write.  Again  and  again  he  stopped  to  think,  his  face 
lined  and  worn  and  old;  then  he  wrote  on  and  on.  Ambi- 
tion, hope,  youth,  the  Foreign  Office,  the  chancelleries  of 
Europe,  the  perils  of  impending  war,  were  all  forgotten, 
or  sunk  into  the  dusky  streams  of  subconsciousness.  One 
thought  dominated  him.  He  was  playing  the  game  that 
has  baffled  all  men,  the  game  of  eluding  destiny;  and, 
like  all  men,  he  must  break  his  heart  in  the  playing. 

"Jasmine,"  he  wrote,  "this  letter,  this  first  real  letter  of  love 
which  I  have  ever  written  you,  will  tell  you  how  great  that  love 
is.  It  will  tell  you,  too,  what  it  means  to  me,  and  what  I  see  before 
us.  To-day  I  surrendered  to  you  all  of  me  that  would  be  worth 
your  keeping,  if  it  was  so  that  you  might  take  and  keep  it. 
When  I  kissed  you,  I  set  the  seal  upon  my  eternal  offering  to  you. 
You  have  given  me  success.  It  is  for  that  I  thank  you  with  all  my 
soul,  but  it  is  not  for  that  I  love  you.  Love  flows  from  other 
fountains  than  gratitude.  It  rises  from  the  well  which  has  its 
springs  at  the  beginning  of  the  world,  where  those  beings  lived  who 
loved  before  there  were  any  gods  at  all,  or  any  faiths,  or  any  truths 
save  the  truth  of  being. 

"But  it  is  because  what  I  feel  belongs  to  something  in  me  deeper 
than  I  have  ever  known  that,  since  we  parted  a  few  hours  ago,  I  see 
all  in  a  new  light.  You  have  brought  to  me  what  perhaps  could 
only  have  come  as  it  did — through  fire  and  cloud  and  storm.  I  did 
not  will  it  so,  indeed,  I  did  not  wish  it  so,  as  you  know;  but  it  came 
in  spite  of  all.  And  I  shall  speak  to  you  of  it  as  to  my  own  soul. 
I  want  no  illusions,  no  self-deception,  no  pretense  to  be  added 
to  my  debt  to  you.  With  wide-open  eyes  I  want  to  look  at 
it.  I  know  that  this  love  of  mine  for  you  is  my  fate,  the  first 
and  the  last  passion  of  my  soul.  And  to  have  known  it  with  all  its 
misery, — for  misery  there  must  be;  misery,  Jasmine,  there  is — to 
have  known  it,  to  have  felt  it,  the  great  overwhelming  thing,  goes 
far  to  compensate  for  all  the  loss  it  so  terribly  exposes.  It  has 
brought  me,  too,  the  fruit  of  life's  ambition.  With  the  full  revela- 
tion of  all  that  I  feel  for  you  came  that  which  gives  me  place  in 
the  world,  confers  on  me  the  right  to  open  doors  which  otherwise 
were  closed  to  me.  You  have  done  this  for  me;  but  what  have  I 
done  for  you?  One  thing  at  least  is  forced  upon  me,  which  I  must 
do  now  while  I  have  the  sight  to  see  and  the  mind  to  understand. 
2IQ 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"  I  cannot  go  on  with  things  as  they  are.  I  cannot  face  Rudyard, 
and  give  myself  to  hourly  deception.  I  think  that  yesterday,  a 
month  ago,  I  could  have  done  so,  but  not  now.  I  cannot  walk 
the  path  which  will  be  paved  with  things  revolting  to  us  both. 
My  love  for  you,  damnable  as  it  would  seem  in  the  world's 
eyes,  prevents  it.  It  is  not  small  enough  to  be  sustained  or  made 
secure  in  its  fulfilment  by  the  devices  of  intrigue.  And  I  know  that 
if  it  is  so  with  me,  it  must  be  a  thousand  times  so  with  you.  Your 
beauty  would  fade  and  pass  under  the  stress  and  meanness  of  it; 
your  heart  would  reproach  me  even  when  you  smiled;  you  would 
learn  to  hate  me  even  when  you  were  resting  upon  my  hungry 
heart.  You  would  learn  to  loathe  the  day  when  you  said,  Let 
me  help  you.  Yet,  Jasmine,  I  know  that  you  are  mine;  that 
you  were  mine  long  ago,  even  when  you  did  not  know,  and  were 
captured  by  opportunity  to  do  what,  with  me,  you  felt  you  could 
not  do.  You  were  captured  by  it;  but  it  has  not  proved  what  it 
promised.  You  have  not  made  the  best  of  the  power  into  which 
you  came,  and  you  could  not  do  so,  because  the  spring  from  which 
all  the  enriching  waters  of  married  life  flow  was  dry.  Poor  Jasmine, 
poor  illusion  of  a  wild  young  heart  which  reached  out  for  the  golden 
city  of  the  mirage! 

"But  now.  .  .  .  Two  ways  spread  out,  and  only  two,  and  one  of 
these  two  I  must  take — for  your  sake.  There  is  the  third  way,  but  I 
will  not  take  it — for  your  sake  and  for  my  own.  I  will  not  walk  in  it 
ever.  Already  my  feet  are  burned  by  tne  fiery  path,  already  I  am 
choked  by  the  smoke  and  the  ashes.  No.  I  cannot  atone  for  what 
has  been,  but  I  can  try  and  gather  up  the  chances  that  are  left. 

"You  must  come  with  me  away — away,  to  start  life  afresh,  some- 
where, somehow;  or  I  must  go  alone  on  some  enterprise  from  which 
I  shall  not  return.  You  cannot  bear  what  is,  but,  together,  having 
braved  the  world,  we  could  look  into  each  other's  eyes  without 
shrinking,  knowing  that  we  had  been  at  least  true  to  each  other, 
true  at  the  last  to  the  thing  that  binds  us,  taking  what  Fate  gave 
without  repining,  because  we  had  faced  all  that  the  world  could 
do  against  us.  It  would  mean  that  I  should  leave  diplomacy  for- 
ever, give  up  all  that  so  far  has  possessed  me  in  the  business  of  life; 
but  I  should  not  lament.  I  have  done  the  one  big  thing  I  wanted 
to  do,  I  have  cut  a  swath  in  the  field.  I  have  made  some  princi- 
palities and  powers  reckon  with  me.  It  may  be  I  have  done  all  I 
was  meant  to  do  in  doing  that — it  may  be.  In  any  case,  the  thing 
I  did  would  stand  as  an  accomplished  work,  it  would  represent  one 
definite  and  original  thing;  one  piece  of  work  in  design  all  my  own, 
in  accomplishment  as  much  yours  as  mine.  ...  To  go  then- 
together — with  only  the  one  big  violence  to  the  conventions  of  the 
world,  and  take  the  law  into  our  own  hands?  Rudyard,  who  under- 
220 


LANDRASSY'S    LAST    STROKE 

stands  life's  violence,  would  understand  that;  what  he  could  never 
understand  would  be  perpetual  artifice,  unseemly  secretiveness.  He 
himself  would  have  been  a  great  filibuster  in  the  olden  days;  he 
would  have  carried  off  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the  chiefs  and 
kings  he  conquered;  but  he  would  never  have  stolen  into  the  secret 
garden  at  night  and  filched  with  the  hand  of  the  sneak-thief — never. 

"To  go  with  me — away,  and  start  afresh.  There  will  be  always 
work  to  do,  always  suffering  humanity  to  be  helped.  We  should 
help  because  we  would  have  suffered,  we  should  try  to  set  right  the 
one  great  mistake  you  made  in  not  coming  to  me  and  so  fulfilling 
the  old  promise.  To  set  that  error  right,  even  though  it  be  by 
wronging  Rudyard  by  one  great  stroke — that  is  better  than  hourly 
wronging  him  now  with  no  surcease  of  that  wrong.  No,  no,  this 
cannot  go  on.  You  could  not  have  it  so.  I  seem  to  feel  that  you 
are  writing  to  me  now,  telling  me  to  begone  forever,  saying  that  you 
had  given  me  gifts — success  and  love;  and  now  to  go  and  leave  you 
in  peace. 

"  Peace,  Jasmine,  it  is  that  we  cry  for,  pray  for,  adjure  the  heavens 
for  in  the  end.  And  all  this  vast,  passionate  love  of  mine  is  the 
strife  of  the  soul  for  peace,  for  fruition. 

"That  peace  we  may  have  in  another  way:  that  I  should  go 
forever,  now,  before  the  terrible  bond  of  habit  has  done  its  work, 
and  bound  us  in  chains  that  never  fall,  that  even  remain  when  love 
is  dead  and  gone,  binding  the  cold  cadre  to  the  living  pain.  To  go 
now,  with  something  accomplished,  and  turn  my  back  forever  on 
the  world,  with  one  last  effort  to  do  the  impossible  thing  for  some 
great  cause,  and  fail  and  be  lost  forever — do  you  not  understand? 
Face  it,  Jasmine,  and  try  to  see  it  in  its  true  light.  ...  I  have  a 
friend,  John  Caxton — you  know  him.  He  is  going  to  the  Antarctic 
to  find  the  futile  thing,  but  the  necessary  thing  so  far  as  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  is  concerned.  With  him,  then,  that  long  quiet, 
and  in  the  far  white  spaces  to  find  peace — forever. 

"You?  .  .  .  Ah,  Jasmine,  habit,  the  habit  of  enduring  me,  is  not 
fixed,  and  in  my  exit  there  would  be  the  agony  of  the  moment,  and 
then  the  comforting  knowledge  that  I  had  done  my  best  to  set  things 
right.  Perhaps  it  is  the  one  way  to  set  things  right;  the  fairest  to 
you,  the  kindest,  and  that  which  has  in  it  most  love.  The  knowl- 
edge of  a  great  love  ended — yours  and  mine — would  help  you  to 
give  what  you  can  give  with  fuller  soul.  And,  maybe,  to  be  happy 
with  Rudyard  at  the  last!  Maybe,  to  be  happy  with  him,  without 
this  wonderful  throbbing  pulse  of  being,  but  with  quiet,  and  to  get 
a  measure  of  what  is  due  to  you  in  the  scheme  of  things.  Destiny 
gives  us  in  life  so  much  and  no  more:  to  some  a  great  deal  in  a  little 
time,  to  others  a  little  over  a  great  deal  of  time,  but  never  the  full  cup 
and  the  shining  sky  over  long  years.  One's  share — small  it  must  be, 
221 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

but  one's  share!  And  it  may  be,  in  what  has  come  to-day,  in  the 
hour  of  my  triumph,  in  the  business  of  life,  in  the  one  hour  of  re- 
vealing love,  it  may  be  I  have  had  my  share.  .  .  .  And  if  that  is  so, 
then  peace  should  be  my  goal,  and  peace  I  can  have  yonder  in  the 
snows.  No  one  would  guess  that  it  was  not  accident,  and  I  should 
feel  sure  that  I  had  stopped  in  time  to  save  you  from  the  worst. 
But  it  must  be  the  one  or  the  other. 

"The  third  way  I  cannot,  will  not,  take;  nor  would  you  take  it 
willingly.  It  would  sear  your  heart  and  spirit,  it  would  spoil  all 
that  makes  you  what  you  are.  Jasmine,  once  for  all  I  am  your 
lover  and  your  friend.  I  give  you  love  and  I  give  you  friendship — 
whatever  comes;  always  that,  always  friendship.  Tempus  fugit  sed 
amicitia  est. 

"In  my  veins  is  a  river  of  fire,  and  my  heart  is  wrenched  with 
pain;   but  in  my  soul  is  that  which  binds  me  to  you,  together  or 
apart,  in  life,  in  death.  .  .  .  Good-night.  .  .  .  Good-morrow. 
"Your  Man, 

"IAN. 

"P.S. — I  will  come  for  your  reply  at  eleven  to-morrow. 

"IAN." 

He  folded  the  letter  slowly  and  placed  it  in  an  envelope 
which  was  lying  loose  on  the  desk  with  the  letters  he  had 
written  at  the  Trafalgar  Club,  and  had  forgotten  to  post. 
When  he  had  put  the  letter  inside  the  envelope  and 
stamped  it,  he  saw  that  the  envelope  was  one  carrying  the 
mark  of  the  Club.  By  accident  he  had  brought  it  with 
the  letters  written  there.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  then 
refrained  from  opening  the  letter  again,  and  presently 
went  out  into  the  night  and  posted  all  his  letters. 


CHAPTER   XIX 
"TO-MORROW  .  .  .  PREPARE!" 

KROOL  did  not  sleep.  What  he  read  in  a  letter  he 
had  found  in  a  hallway,  what  he  knew  of  those  dark 
events  in  South  Africa,  now  to  culminate  in  a  bitter  war, 
and  what,  with  the  mysterious  psychic  instinct  of  race, 
he  divined  darkly  and  powerfully,  all  kept  his  eyes  un- 
sleeping and  his  mind  disordered.  More  than  any  one, 
he  knew  of  the  inner  story  of  the  Baas'  vrouw  during  the 
past  week  and  years;  also  he  had  knowledge  of  what  was 
soon  to  empty  out  upon  the  groaning  earth  the  entrails 
of  South  Africa;  but  how  he  knew  was  not  to  be  dis- 
covered. Even  Rudyard,  who  thought  he  read  him  like 
a  book,  only  lived  on  the  outer  boundaries  of  his  charac- 
ter. Their  alliance  was  only  the  durable  alliance  of  those 
who  have  seen  Death  at  their  door,  and  together  have 
driven  him  back. 

Barry  Whalen  had  regarded  Krool  as  a  spy ;  all  British- 
ers who  came  and  went  in  the  path  to  Rudyard's  door 
had  their  doubts  or  their  dislike  of  him;  and  to  every 
servant  of  the  household  he  was  a  dark  and  isolated  figure. 
He  never  interfered  with  the  acts  of  his  fellow-servants, 
except  in  so  far  as  those  acts  affected  his  master's  comfort; 
and  he  paid  no  attention  to  their  words  except  where  they 
affected  himself. 

"When  you  think  it's  a  ghost,  it's  only  Krool  wanderin' 
w'ere  he  ain't  got  no  business,"  was  the  angry  remark  of 
the  upper-housemaid,  whom  his  sudden  appearance  had 
startled  in  a  dim  passage  one  day. 
223 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"Lor"!  what  a  turn  you  give  me,  Mr.  Krool,  spookin' 
about  where  there's  no  call  for  you  to  be,"  she  had  said 
to  him,  and  below  stairs  she  had  enlarged  upon  his  enor- 
mities greatly. 

"And  Mrs.  Byng,  she  not  like  him  better  as  we  do," 
was  the  comment  of  Lablanche,  the  lady's  maid.  "A 
snake  in  the  grass — that  is  what  Madame  think." 

Slowly  the  night  passed  for  Krool.  His  disturbed  brain 
was  like  some  dark  wood  through  which  flew  songless 
birds  with  wings  of  night;  through  which  sped  the  furtive 
dwellers  of  the  grass  and  the  earth-covert.  The  real  and 
the  imaginative  crowded  the  dark  purlieus.  He  was  the 
victim  of  his  blood,  his  beginnings  off  there  beyond  the 
Vaal,  where  the  veld  was  swept  by  the  lightning  and 
the  storm,  the  home  of  wild  dreams,  and  of  a  loneli- 
ness terrible  and  strange,  to  which  the  man  who  once  had 
tasted  its  awfvd.  pleasures  returned  and  returned  again, 
until  he  was,  at  the  last,  part  of  its  loneliness,  its  woeful 
agitations  and  its  reposeless  quiet. 

It  was  not  possible  for  him  to  think  or  be  like  pure 
white  people,  to  do  as  they  did.  He  was  a  child  of  the 
kopje,  the  spruit,  and  the  dun  veld,  where  men  dwelt 
with  weird  beings  which  were  not  men — presences  that 
whispered,  telling  them  of  things  to  come,  blowing  the 
warnings  of  Destiny  across  the  waste,  over  thousands  and 
thousands  of  miles.  Such  as  he  always  became  apart 
and  lonely  because  of  this  companionship  of  silence  and 
the  unseen.  More  and  more  they  withdrew  themselves, 
unwittingly  and  painfully,  from  the  understanding  and 
companionship  of  the  usual  matter-of-fact,  commonplace, 
sensible  people — the  settler,  the  emigrant,  and  the  British 
man.  Sinister  they  became,  but  with  the  helplessness  of 
those  in  whom  the  under-spirit  of  life  has  been  working, 
estranging  them,  even  against  their  will,  from  the  rest  of 
the  world. 

So  Krool,  estranged,  lonely,  even  in  the  heart  of  friend- 
224 


"TO-MORROW  .  .  .  PREPARE!" 

ly,  pushing,  jostling  London,  still  was  haunted  by  pres- 
ences which  whispered  to  him,  not  with  the  old  clearness 
of  bygone  days,  but  with  confused  utterances  and  clouded 
meaning;  and  yet  sufficient  in  dark  suggestion  for  him 
to  know  that  ill  happenings  were  at  hand,  and  that  he 
would  be  in  the  midst  of  them,  an  instrument  of  Fate. 
All  night  strange  shapes  trooped  past  his  clouded  eyes, 
and  more  than  once,  in  a  half -dream,  he  called  out  to  his 
master  to  help  him  as  he  was  helped  long  ago  when  that 
master  rescued  him  from  death. 

Long  before  the  rest  of  the  house  was  stirring,  Krool 
wandered  hither  and  thither  through  the  luxurious  rooms, 
vainly  endeavouring  to  occupy  himself  with  his  master's 
clothes,  boots,  and  belongings.  At  last  he  stole  into 
Byng's  room  and,  stooping,  laid  something  on  the  floor; 
then  reclaiming  the  two  cables  which  Rudyard  had  read, 
crumpled  up,  and  thrown  away,  he  crept  stealthily  from 
the  room.  His  face  had  a  sombre  and  forbidding  pleasure 
as  he  read  by  the  early  morning  light  the  discarded  mes- 
sages with  their  thunderous  warnings — "To-morrow  .  .  . 
Prepare!" 

He  knew  their  meaning  well  enough.  "To-morrow" 
was  here,  and  it  would  bring  the  challenge  from  Oom 
Paul  to  try  the  might  of  England  against  the  iron  cour- 
age of  those  to  whom  the  Vierkleur  was  the  symbol 
of  sovereignty  from  sea  to  sea  and  the  ruin  of  the 
Rooinek. 

"Prepare!"  He  knew  vastly  more  than  those  respon- 
sible men  in  position  or  in  high  office,  who  should  know 
a  thousand  times  as  much  more.  He  knew  so  much  that 
was  useful — to  Oom  Paul;  but  what  he  knew  he  did  not 
himself  convey,  though  it  reached  those  who  welcomed  it 
eagerly  and  grimly.  All  that  he  knew,  another  also  near 
to  the  Baas  also  knew,  and  knew  it  before  Krool;  and 
reaped  the  reward  of  knowing. 

Krool  did  not  himself  need  to  betray  the  Baas  direct; 
and,  with  the  reasoning  of  the  native  in  him,  he  found  it 
225 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

possible  to  let  another  be  the  means  and  the  messenger 
of  betrayal.  So  he  soothed  his  conscience. 

A  little  time  before  they  had  all  gone  to  Glencader, 
however,  he  had  discovered  something  concerning  this 
agent  of  Paul  Kruger  in  the  heart  of  the  Otitlander  camp, 
whom  he  employed,  which  had  roused  in  him  the  worst 
passions  of  an  outcast  mind.  Since  then  there  had  been 
no  trafficking  with  the  traitor — the  double  traitor,  whom 
he  was  now  plotting  to  destroy,  not  because  he  was  a 
traitor  to  his  country,  but  because  he  was  a  traitor  to  the 
Baas.  In  his  evil  way,  he  loved  his  master  as  a  Caliban 
might  love  an  Apollo.  That  his  devotion  took  forms 
abnormal  and  savage  in  their  nature  was  due  to  his  origin 
and  his  blood.  That  he  plotted  to  secure  the  betrayal 
of  the  Baas'  country  and  the  Outlander  interest,  while  he 
would  have  given  his  life  for  the  Baas,  was  but  the  twisted 
sense  of  a  perverted  soul. 

He  had  one  obsession  now — to  destroy  Adrian  Fellowes, 
his  agent  for  Paul  Kruger  in  the  secret  places  of  British 
policy  and  in  the  house  of  the  Partners,  as  it  were.  But 
how  should  it  be  done ?  What  should  be  the  means?  On 
the  very  day  in  which  Oom  Paul  would  send  his  ultimatum, 
the  means  came  to  his  hand. 

" Prepare!"  the  cable  to  the  Baas  had  read.  The  Baas 
would  be  prepared  for  the  thunderbolt  to  be  hurled  from 
Pretoria;  but  he  would  have  no  preparation  for  the 
thunderbolt  which  would  fall  at  his  feet  this  day  in  this 
house,  where  white  roses  welcomed  the  visitor  at  the  door- 
way and  the  beauty  of  Titians  and  Botticellis  and  Rubens' 
and  Goyas  greeted  him  in  the  luxuriant  chambers.  There 
would  be  no  preparation  for  that  war  which  rages  most 
violently  at  a  fireside  and  in  the  human  heart. 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE  FURNACE   DOOR 

IT  was  past  nine  o'clock  when  Rudyard  wakened.  It 
was  nearly  ten  before  he  turned  to  leave  his  room  for 
breakfast.  As  he  did  so  he  stooped  and  picked  up  an 
open  letter  lying  on  the  floor  near  the  door. 

His  brain  was  dazed  and  still  surging  with  the  terrible 
thoughts  which  had  agonized  him  the  night  before.  He 
was  as  in  a  dream,  and  was  only  vaguely  conscious  of  the 
fugitive  letter.  He  was  wondering  whether  he  would  go 
at  once  to  Jasmine  or  wait  until  he  had  finished  breakfast. 
Opening  the  door  of  his  room,  he  saw  the  maid  entering 
to  Jasmine  with  a  gown  over  her  arm. 

No,  he  would  not  go  to  her  till  she  was  alone,  till  she 
was  dressed  and  alone.  Then  he  would  tell  her  all,  and 
take  her  in  his  arms,  and  talk  with  her — talk  as  he  had 
never  talked  before.  Slowly,  heavily,  he  went  to  his 
study,  where  his  breakfast  was  always  eaten.  As  he  sat 
down  he  opened,  with  uninterested  inquiry,  the  letter  he 
had  picked  up  inside  the  door  of  his  room.  As  he  did  so 
he  vaguely  wondered  why  Krool  had  overlooked  it  as  he 
passed  in  and  out.  Perhaps  Krool  had  dropped  it.  His 
eyes  fell  on  the  opening  words.  .  .  His  face  turned  ashen 
white.  A  harsh  cry  broke  from  him. 

At  eleven  o'clock  to  the  minute  Ian  Stafford  entered 
Byng's  mansion  and  was  being  taken  to  Jasmine's  sitting- 
room,  when  Rudyard  appeared  on  the  staircase,  and  with 
a  peremptory  gesture  waved  the  servant  away.  Ian  was 
suddenly  conscious  of  a  terrible  change  in  Rudyard's  ap- 
227 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

pearance.  His  face  was  haggard  and  his  warm  colour  had 
given  place  fo  a  strange  blackish  tinge  which  seemed  to 
underlie  the  pallor — the  deathly  look  to  be  found  in  the 
faces  of  those  stricken  with  a  mortal  disease.  All  strength 
and  power  seemed  to  have  gone  from  the  face,  leaving  it 
tragic  with  uncontrolled  suffering.  Panic  emotion  was 
uppermost,  while  desperate  and  reckless  purpose  was 
in  his  eyes.  The  balance  was  gone  from  the  general 
character  and  his  natural  force  was  like  some  great 
gun  loose  from  its  fastenings  on  the  deck  of  a  sea-stricken 
ship.  He  was  no  longer  the  stalwart  Outlander  who  had 
done  such  great  work  in  South  Africa  and  had  such  power 
in  political  London  and  in  international  finance.  The 
demoralization  which  had  stealthily  gone  on  for  a  number 
of  years]  was  now  suddenly  a  debacle  of  will  and  body. 
Of  the  superb  physical  coolness  and  intrepid  mind  with 
which  he  had  sprung  upon  the  stage  of  Covent  Garden 
Opera  House  to  rescue  Al'mah  nothing  seemed  left;  or, 
if  it  did  remain,  it  was  shocked  out  of  its  bearings.  His 
eyes  were  almost  glassy  as  he  looked  at  Ian  Stafford, 
and  animal-like  hatred  was  the  dominating  note  of  his 
face  and  carriage. 

"Come  with  me,  Stafford;  I  want  to  speak  to  you," 
he  said,  hoarsely.  "You've  arrived  when  I  wanted  you 
— at  the  exact  time." 

"Yes,  I  said  I  would  come  at  eleven,"  responded  Staf- 
ford, mechanically.  "Jasmine  expects  me  at  eleven." 

"In  here,"  Byng  said,  pointing  to  a  little  morning- 
room. 

As  Stafford  entered,  he  saw  Krool's  face,  malign  and 
sombre,  show  in  a  doorway  of  the  hall.  Was  he  mistaken 
in  thinking  that  Krool  flashed  a  look  of  secret  triumph 
and  yet  of  obscure  warning?  Warning?  There  was 
trouble,  strange  and  dreadful  trouble,  here;  and  the 
wrenching  thought  had  swept  into  his  brain  that  he 
was  the  cause  of  it  all,  that  he  was  to  be  the  spring  w* 
centre  of  dreadful  happenings. 
228 


THE    FURNACE    DOOR 

He  was  conscious  of  something  else  purely  objective 
as  he  entered  the  room — of  music,  the  music  of  a  gay  light 
opera  being  played  in  the  adjoining  room,  from  which 
this  little  morning-room  was  separated  only  by  Indian 
bead-curtains.  He  saw  idle  sunlight  play  upon  these 
beads,  as  he  sat  down  at  the  table  to  which  Rudyard 
motioned  him.  He  was  also  subconsciously  aware  who 
it  was  that  played  the  piano  beyond  there  with  such  pleas- 
ant skill.  Many  a  time  thereafter,  in  the  days  to  come, 
he  would  be  awakened  in  the  night  by  the  sound  of  that 
music,  a  love -song  from  the  light  opera  "A  Lady  of 
London,"  which  had  just  caught  the  ears  of  the  people 
in  the  street. 

Of  one  thing  he  was  sure :  the  end  of  things  had  come — 
the  end  of  all  things  that  life  meant  to  him  had  come. 
Rudyard  knew!  Rudyard,  sitting  there  at  the  other  side 
of  the  table  and  leaning  toward  him  with  a  face  where, 
in  control  of  all  else,  were  hate  and  panic  emotion — he 
knew. 

The  music  in  the  next  room  was  soft,  persistent  and 
searching.  As  Ian  waited  for  Rudyard  to  speak  he  was 
conscious  that  even  the  words  of  the  silly,  futile  love-song 
were  running  through  his  mind: 

"Not  like  the  roses  shall  our  love  be,  dear; 

Never  shall  its  lovely  petals  fade; 
Singing,  it  will  flourish  till  the  world's  last  year, 
Happy  as  the  song-birds  in  the  glade." 

Through  it  all  now  came  Rudyard's  voice. 

"  I  have  a  letter  here,"  the  voice  said,  and  he  saw  Rud- 
yard slowly  take  it  from  his  pocket.  "I  want  you  to 
read  it,  and  when  you  have  read  it,  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
what  you  think  of  the  man  who  wrote  it." 

He  threw  a  letter  down  on  the  table — a  square  white 
envelope  with  the  crest  of  the  Trafalgar  Club  upon  it. 
It  lay  face  downward,  waiting  for  his  hand. 

So  it  had  come.  His  letter  to  Jasmine  which  told  all— - 
229 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Rudyard  had  read  it.  And  here  was  the  end  of  every- 
thing— the  roses  faded  before  they  had  bloomed  an  hour. 
It  was  not  for  them  to  nourish  "till  the  world's  last  year." 

His  hand  reached  out  for  the  letter.  With  eyes  almost 
blind  he  raised  it,  and  slowly  and  mechanically  took  the 
document  of  tragedy  from  the  envelope.  Why  should 
Rudyard  insist  on  his  reading  it?  It  was  a  devilish  re- 
venge, which  he  could  not  resent.  But  time — he  must 
have  time;  therefore  he  would  do  Rudyard's  bidding, 
and  read  this  thing  he  had  written,  look  at  it  with  eyes 
in  which  Penalty  was  gathering  its  mists. 

So  this  was  the  end  of  it  all — friendship  gone  with  the 
man  before  him;  shame  come  to  the  woman  he  loved; 
misery  to  every  one;  a  home-life  shattered;  and  from  the 
souls  of  three  people  peace  banished  for  evermore. 

He  opened  out  the  pages  with  a  slowness  that  seemed 
almost  apathy,  while  the  man  opposite  clinched  his  hands 
on  the  table  spasmodically.  Still  the  music  from  the 
other  room  with  cheap,  flippant  sensuousness  stole 
through  the  burdened  air: 

"Singing,  it  will  flourish  till  the  world's  last  year — " 

He  looked  at  the  writing  vaguely,  blindly.  Why  should 
this  be  exacted  of  him,  this  futile  penalty?  Then  all  at 
once  his  sight  cleared;  for  this  handwriting  was  not  his; 
this  letter  was  not  his;  these  wild,  passionate  phrases, 
this  terrible  suggestiveness  of  meaning,  these  references 
to  the  past,  this  appeal  for  further  hours  of  love  together, 
this  abjectly  tender  appeal  to  Jasmine  that  she  would 
wear  one  of  his  white  roses  when  he  saw  her  the  next 
day — would  she  not  see  him  between  eleven  and  twelve 
o'clock? — all  these  words  were  not  his. 

They  were  written  by  the  man  who  was  playing  the 

piano  in  the  next  room ;  by  the  man  who  had  come  and 

gone  in  this  house  like  one  who  had  the  right  to  do  so; 

who  had,  as  it  were,  fed  from  Rudyard  Byng's  hand; 

230 


THE    FURNACE    DOOR 

who  lived  on  what  Byng  paid  him;  who  had  been  trusted 
with  the  innermost  life  of  the  household  and  the  life  and 
the  business  of  the  master  of  it. 

The  letter  was  signed,  Adrian. 

His  own  face  blanched  like  the  face  of  the  man  before 
him.  He  had  braced  himself  to  face  the  consequences  of 
his  own  letter  to  the  woman  he  loved,  and  he  was  face  to 
face  with  the  consequences  of  another  man's  letter  to 
the  same  woman,  to  the  woman  who  had  two  lovers. 
He  was  face  to  face  with  Rudyard's  tragedy,  and  with 
his  own.  .  .  .  She,  Jasmine,  to  whom  he  had  given  all,  for 
whom  he  had  been  ready  to  give  up  all — career,  fame, 
existence — was  true  to  none,  unfaithful  to  all,  caring  for 
none,  but  pretending  to  care  for  all  three — and  for  how 
many  others?  He  choked  back  a  cry. 

"Well — well?"  came  the  husband's  voice  across  the 
table.  "There's  one  thing  to  do,  and  I  mean  to  do  it." 
He  waved  a  hand  towards  the  music-room.  "He's  in 
the  next  room  there.  I  mean  to  kill  him — to  kill  him — 
now.  I  wanted  you  to  know  why,  to  know  all,  you, 
Stafford,  my  old  friend  and  hers.  And  I'm  going  to  do 
it  now.  Listen  to  him  there!" 

His  words  came  brokenly  and  scarce  above  a  whisper, 
but  they  were  ghastly  in  their  determination,  in  their 
loathing,  their  blind  fury.  He  was  gone  mad,  all  the 
animal  in  him  alive,  the  brain  tossing  on  a  sea  of  disorder. 

"Now!"  he  said,  suddenly,  and,  rising,  he  pushed  back 
his  chair.  "Give  that  to  me." 

He  reached  out  his  hand  for  the  letter,  but  his  confused 
senses  were  suddenly  arrested  by  the  look  in  Ian  Stafford's 
face,  a  look  so  strange,  so  poignant,  so  insistent,  that  he 
paused.  Words  could  not  have  checked  his  blind  haste 
like  that  look.  In  the  interval  which  followed,  the  music 
from  the  other  room  struck  upon  the  ears  of  both,  with 
exasperating  insistence : 

"Not  like  the  roses  shall  our  love  be,  dear — " 
16  231 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Stafford  made  no  motion  to  return  the  letter.  He 
caught  and  held  Rudyard's  eyes. 

"You  ask  me  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of  the  man  who 
wrote  this  letter,"  he  said,  thickly  and  slowly,  for  he  was 
like  one  paralyzed,  regaining  his  speech  with  blanching 
effort:  "Byng,  I  think  what  you  think — all  you  think; 
but  I  would  not  do  what  you  want  to  do." 

As  he  had  read  the  letter  the  whole  horror  of  the  situa- 
tion burst  upon  him.  Jasmine  had  deceived  her  hus- 
band when  she  turned  to  himself,  and  that  was  to  be 
understood — to  be  understood,  if  not  to  be  pardoned. 
A  woman  might  marry,  thinking  she  cared,  and  all  too 
soon,  sometimes  before  the  second  day  had  dawned,  learn 
that  shrinking  and  repugnance  which  not  even  habit  can 
modify  or  obscure.  A  girl  might  be  mistaken,  with  her 
heart  and  nature  undeveloped,  and  with  that  closer  inti- 
mate life  with  another  of  another  sex  still  untried.  With 
the  transition  from  maidenhood  to  wifehood,  fateful  be- 
yond all  transitions,  yet  unmade,  she  might  be  mistaken 
once;  as  so  many  have  been  in  the  revelations  of  first 
intimacy;  but  not  twice,  not  the  second  time.  It  was 
not  possible  to  be  mistaken  in  so  vital  a  thing  twice. 
This  was  merely  a  wilful,  miserable  degeneracy.  Rud- 
yard  had  been  wronged — terribly  wronged — by  himself, 
by  Jasmine;  but  he  had  loved  Jasmine  since  she  was 
a  child,  before  Rudyard  came — in  truth,  he  all  but  pos- 
sessed her  when  Rudyard  came;  and  there  was  some  ex- 
planation, if  no  excuse,  for  that  betrayal;  but  this  other, 
it  was  incredible,  it  was  monstrous.  It  was  incredible, 
but  yet  it  was  true.  Thoughts  that  overturned  all  his 
past,  that  made  a  mdtie  of  his  life,  rushed  and  whirled 
through  his  mind  as  he  read  the  letter  with  assumed  de- 
liberation when  he  saw  what  it  was.  He  read  slowly  that 
he  might  make  up  his  mind  how  to  act,  what  to  say  and 
do  in  this  crisis.  To  do — what?  Jasmine  had  betrayed 
him  long  ago  when  she  had  thrown  him  over  for  Rudyard, 
and  now  she  had  betrayed  him  again  after  she  had  mar- 
232 


THE    FURNACE    DOOR 

ried  Rudyard,  and  betrayed  Rudyard,  too;  and  for  whom, 
this  second  betrayal?  His  heart  seemed  to  shrink  to 
nothingness.  This  business  dated  far  beyond  yesterday. 
The  letter  furnished  that  sure  evidence. 

What  to  do?  Like  lightning  his  mind  was  made  up. 
What  to  do?  Ah,  but  one  thing  to  do — only  one  thing  to 
do — save  her  at  any  cost,  somehow  save  her!  Whatever 
she  was,  whatever  she  had  done,  however  she  had  spoiled 
his  life  and  destroyed  forever  his  faith,  yet  he  too  had  be- 
trayed this  broken  man  before  him,  with  the  look  in  his 
eyes  of  an  animal  at  bay,  ready  to  do  the  last  irretrievable 
thing.  Even  as  her  shameless  treatment  of  himself  smote 
him;  lowered  him  to  that  dust  which  is  ground  from  the 
heels  of  merciless  humanity — even  as  it  sickened  his  soul 
beyond  recovery  in  this  world,  up  from  the  lowest  depths 
of  his  being  there  came  the  indestructible  thing.  It  was 
the  thing  that  never  dies,  the  love  that  defies  injury, 
shame,  crime,  deceit,  and  desertion,  and  lives  pityingly 
on,  knowing  all,  enduring  all,  desiring  no  touch,  no  com- 
munion, yet  prevailing — the  indestructible  thing. 

He  knew  now  in  a  flash  what  he  had  to  do.  He  must 
save  her.  He  saw  that  Rudyard  was  armed,  and  that 
the  end  might  come  at  any  moment.  There  was  in  the 
wronged  husband's  eyes  the  wild,  reckless,  unseeing  thing 
which  disregards  consequences,  which  would  rush  blindly 
on  the  throne  of  God  itself  to  snatch  its  vengeance.  He 
spoke  again:  and  just  in  time. 

"I  think  what  you  think,  Byng,  but  I  would  not  do 
what  you  want  to  do.  I  would  do  something  else." 

His  voice  was  strangely  quiet,  but  it  had  a  sharp  in- 
sistence which  caused  Rudyard  to  turn  back  mechanically 
to  the  seat  he  had  just  left.  Stafford  saw  the  instant's 
advantage  which,  if  he  did  not  pursue,  all  would  be  lost. 
With  a  great  effort  he  simulated  intense  anger  and  in- 
dignation. 

"Sit  down,  Byng,"  he  said,  with  a  gesture  of  authority. 
He  leaned  over  the  table,  holding  the  other's  eyes,  the 
233 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

letter  in  one  clinched  hand.  "Kill  him — ,"  he  said,  and 
pointed  to  the  other  room,  from  which  came  the  madden- 
ing iteration  of  the  jingling  song — "you  would  kill  him 
for  his  hellish  insolence,  for  this  infamous  attempt  to 
lead  your  wife  astray,  but  what  good  will  it  do  to  kill 
him?" 

"Not  him  alone,  but  her  too,"  came  the  savage,  un- 
controlled voice  from  the  uncontrolled  savagery  of  the 
soul. 

Suddenly  a  great  fear  shot  up  in  Stafford's  heart.  His 
breath  came  in  sharp,  breaking  gasps.  Had  he — had  he 
killed  Jasmine? 

"You  have  not — not  her?" 

"No — not  yet."  The  lips  of  the  avenger  suddenly 
ceased  twitching,  and  they  shut  with  ominous  certainty. 

An  iron  look  came  into  Stafford's  face.  He  had  his 
chance  now.  One  word,  one  defense  only!  It  would  do 
all,  or  all  would  be  lost — sunk  in  a  sea  of  tragedy.  Di- 
plomacy had  taught  him  the  gift  of  control  of  face  and 
gesture,  of  meaning  in  tone  and  word.  He  made  an  effort 
greater  than  he  had  ever  put  forward  in  life.  He  affected 
an  enormous  and  scornful  surprise. 

"You  think — you  dare  to  think  that  she — that  Jas- 
mine— " 

"Think,  you  say!    The  letter— that  letter—" 

"This  letter — this  letter,  Byng — are  you  a  fool?  This 
letter,  this  preposterous  thing  from  the  universal  phi- 
landerer, the  effeminate  erotic!  It  is  what  it  is,  and 
it  is  no  more.  Jasmine — you  know  her.  Indiscreet — 
yes;  always  indiscreet  in  her  way,  in  her  own  way,  and 
always  daring.  A  coquette  always.  She  has  coquetted 
all  her  life;  she  cannot  help  it.  She  doesn't  even  know  it. 
She  led  him  on  from  sheer  wilfulness.  What  did  it  matter 
to  her  that  he  was  of  no  account !  She  led  him  on,  to  be 
at  her  feet  like  the  rest,  like  bigger  and  better  men — like 
us  all.  Was  there  ever  a  time  when  she  did  not  want 
to  master  us?  She  has  coquetted  since — ah,  you  do 
234 


THE    FURNACE    DOOR 

not  know  as  I  do,  her  old  friend !  She  has  coquetted  since 
she  was  a  little  child.  Coquetted,  and  no  more.  We  have 
all  been  her  slaves — yes,  long  before  you  came — all  of  us. 
Look  at  Mennaval!  She — " 

With  a  distracted  gesture  Byng  interrupted.  "The 
world  believes  the  worst.  Last  night,  by  accident,  I  heard 
at  De  Lancy  Scovel's  house  that  she  and  Mennaval — and 
now  this — !" 

But  into  the  rage,  the  desperation  in  the  wild  eyes,  was 
now  creeping  an  eager  look — not  of  hope,  but  such  a  look 
as  might  be  in  eyes  that  were  striving  to  see  through 
darkness,  looking  for  a  glimmer  of  day  in  the  black  hush 
of  morning  before  the  dawn.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  the 
strong  man  tossing  on  the  flood  of  disordered  under- 
standing, a  willing  castaway,  yet  stretching  out  a  hand 
to  be  saved. 

"Oh,  last  night,  Mennaval,  you  say,  and  to-day — 
this !"  Stafford  held  up  the  letter.  "This  means  nothing 
against  her,  except  indiscretion,  and  indiscretion  which 
would  have  been  nothing  if  the  man  had  not  been  what 
he  is.  He  is  of  the  slime.  He  does  not  matter,  except 
that  he  has  dared — !" 

"He  has  dared,  by  God—!" 

All  Byng's  rage  came  back,  the  lacerated  pride,  the 
offended  manhood,  the  self-esteem  which  had  been  spat- 
tered by  the  mud  of  slander,  by  the  cynical  defense,  or 
the  pitying  solicitude  of  his  friends — of  De  Lancy  Scovel, 
Barry  Whalen,  Sobieski  the  Polish  Jew,  Fleming,  Wolff, 
and  the  rest.  The  pity  of  these  for  hjm — for  Rudyard 
Byng,  because  the  flower  in  his  garden,  his  Jasmine-flower, 
was  swept  by  the  blast  of  calumny!  He  sprang  from  his 
chair  with  an  ugly  oath. 

But  Stafford  stepped  in  front  of  him.  ' '  Sit  down,  Byng, 
or  damn  yourself  forever.  If  she  is  innocent — and  she  is 
— do  you  think  she  would  ever  live  with  you  again,  after 
you  had  dragged  her  name  into  the  dust  of  the  criminal 
courts  and  through  the  reek  of  the  ha'penny  press?  Do 
235 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

you  think  Jasmine  would  ever  forgive  you  for  suspecting 
her?  If  you  want  to  drive  her  from  you  forever,  then  kill 
him,  and  go  and  tell  her  that  you  suspect»her.  I  know 
her — I  have  known  her  all  her  life,  long  before  you  came. 
I  care  what  becomes  of  her.  She  has  many  who  care 
what  becomes  of  her — her  father,  her  brother,  many  men, 
and  many  women  who  have  seen  her  grow  up  without  a 
mother.  They  understand  her,  they  believe  in  her,  be- 
cause they  have  known  her  over  all  the  years.  They 
know  her  better  than  you.  Perhaps  they  care  for  her — 
perhaps  any  one  of  them  cares  for  her  far  more  than 
you  do." 

Now  there  came  a  new  look  into  the  big,  staring  eyes. 
Byng  was  as  one  fascinated;  light  was  breaking  in  on  his 
rage,  his  besmirched  pride,  his  vengeance;  hope  was 
stealing  tremblingly  into  his  face. 

"She  was  more  to  me  than  all  the  world — than  twenty 
worlds.  She—" 

He  hesitated,  then  his  voice  broke  and  his  body  sud- 
denly shook  violently,  as  tears  rose  in  the  far,  deep  wells 
of  feeling  and  tried  to  reach  the  fevered  eyes.  He  leaned 
his  head  in  his  big,  awkward  hands. 

Stafford  saw  the  way  of  escape  for  Jasmine  slowly 
open  out,  and  went  on  quickly.  "You  have  neglected 
her" — Rudyard's  head  came  up  in  angry  protest — 
"not  wilfully;  but  you  have  neglected  her.  You  have 
been  too  easy  You  should  lead,  not  follow,  where 
a  woman  is  concerned.  All  women  are  indiscreet,  all 
are  a  little  dishonourable  on  opportunity;  but  not 
in  the  big  way,  only  in  the  small,  contemptible  way, 
according  to  our  code.  We  men  are  dishonourable  in 
the  big  way  where  they  are  concerned.  You  have 
neglected  her,  Byng,  because  you  have  not  said,  'This 
way,  Jasmine.  Come  with  me.  I  want  you;  and  you 
must  come,  and  come  now.'  She  wanted  your  society, 
wanted  you  all  the  time;  but  while  you  did  not  have  her 
on  the  leash  she  went  playing — playing.  That  is  it,  and 
236 


THE    FURNACE    DOOR 

that  is  all.  And  now,  if  you  want  to  keep  her,  if  you 
want  her  to  live  on  with  you,  I  warn  you  not  to  tell  her 
you  know  of  the  insult  this  letter  contains,  nor  ever 
say  what  would  make  her  think  you  suspected  her.  If 
you  do,  you  will  bid  good-bye  to  her  forever.  She  has 
bold  blood  in  her  veins,  rash  blood.  Her  grandfather — " 

"I  know — I  know."  The  tone  was  credulous,  under- 
standing now.  Hope  stole  into  the  distorted  face. 

"She  would  resent  your  suspicion.  She,  then,  would 
do  the  mad  thing,  not  you.  She  would  be  as  frenzied 
as  you  were  a  moment  ago;  and  she  would  not  listen  to 
reason.  If  you  dared  to  hint  outside  in  the  world,  that 
you  believed  her  guilty,  there  are  some  of  her  old  friends 
who  would  feel  like  doing  to  you  what  you  want  to  do  to 
that  libertine  in  there,  to  Al'mah's  lover — " 

"Good  God,  Stafford— wait!" 

"I  don't  mean  Barry  Whalen,  Fleming,  De  Lancy 
Scovel,  and  the  rest.  They  are  not  her  old  friends,  and 
they  weren't  yours  once — that  breed;  but  the  others  who 
are  the  best,  of  whom  you  come,  over  there  in  Hereford- 
shire, in  Dorset,  in  Westmorland,  where  your  and  her 
people  lived,  and  mine.  You  have  been  too  long  among 
the  Outlanders,  Byng.  Come  back,  and  bring  Jasmine 
with  you.  And  as  for  this  letter — " 

Byng  reached  out  his  hand  for  it. 

"No,  it  contains  an  insult  to  your  wife.  If  you  get  it 
into  your  hands,  you  will  read  it  again,  and  then  you  will 
do  some  foolish  thing,  for  you  have  lost  grip  of  yourself. 
Here  is  the  only  place  for  such  stuff — an  outburst  of 
sensuality!" 

He  threw  the  letter  suddenly  into  the  fire.  Rudyard 
sprang  to  his  feet  as  though  to  reclaim  it,  but  stood  still; 
bewildered,  as  he  saw  Stafford  push  it  farther  into  the 
coals. 

Silent,  they  watched  shrivel  such  evidence  as  brings 
ruin  upon  men  and  women  in  courts  of  law. 

"Leave  the  whole  thing  —  leave  Fellowes  to  me," 
237 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Stafford  said,  after  a  slight  pause.  "I  will  deal  with  him. 
He  shall  leave  the  country  to-night.  I  will  see  to  that. 
He  shall  go  for  three  years  at  least.  Do  not  see  him. 
You  will  not  contain  yourself,  and  for  your  own  chance 
of  happiness  with  the  woman  you  love,  you  must  do 
nothing,  nothing  at  all  now." 

"He  has  keys,  papers—" 

"I  will  see  to  that;  I  will  see  to  everything.  Now  go, 
at  once.  There  is  enough  for  you  to  do.  The  war,  Oom 
Paul's  war,  will  be  on  us  to-day.  Do  you  hear,  Byng — 
to-day!  And  you  have  work  to  do  for  this  your  native 
country  and  for  South  Africa,  your  adopted  country. 
England  and  the  Transvaal  will  be  at  each  other's  throat 
before  night.  You  have  work  to  do.  Do  it.  You  are 
needed.  Go,  and  leave  this  wretched  business  in  my 
hands.  I  will  deal  with  Fellowes — adequately." 

The  rage  had  faded  from  Byng's  fevered  eyes,  and  now 
there  was  a  moisture  in  them,  a  look  of  incalculable  relief. 
To  believe  in  Jasmine,  that  was  everything  to  him.  He 
had  not  seen  her  yet,  not  since  he  left  the  white  rose  on 
her  pillow  last  night — Adrian  Fellowes'  tribute;  and  after 
he  had  read  the  letter,  he  had  had  no  wish  to  see  her  till 
he  had  had  his  will  and  done  away  with  Fellowes  forever. 
Then  he  would  see  her — for  the  last  time:  and  she  should 
die,  too, — with  himself.  That  had  been  his  purpose.  Now 
all  was  changed.  He  would  not  see  her  now,  not  till 
Fellowes  was  gone  forever.  Then  he  would  come  again, 
and  say  no  word  which  would  let  her  think  he  knew  what 
Fellowes  had  written.  Yes,  Stafford  was  right.  She 
must  not  know,  and  they  must  start  again,  begin  life 
again  together,  a  new  understanding  in  his  heart,  new 
purposes  in  their  existence.  In  these  few  minutes  Staf- 
ford had  taught  him  much,  had  showed  him  where  he  had 
been  wrong,  had  revealed  to  him  Jasmine's  nature  as  he 
never  really  understood  it. 

At  the  door,  as  Stafford  helped  him  on  with  a  light 
overcoat,  he  took  a  revolver  from  his  pocket, 
238 


THE    FURNACE    DOOR 

"That's  the  proof  of  what  I  meant  to  do,"  he  said; 
"and  this  is  proof  of  what  I  mean  to  do,"  he  added,  as 
he  handed  over  the  revolver  and  Stafford's  fingers  grasped 
it  with  a  nervous  force  which  he  misinterpreted. 

"Ah  yes,"  he  exclaimed,  sadly,  "you  don't  quite  trust 
me  yet — not  quite,  Stafford;  and  I  don't  wonder;  but 
it's  all  right.  .  .  .  You've  been  a  good,  good  friend  to  us 
both, ' '  he  added.  ' '  I  wish  Jasmine  might  know  how  good 
a  friend  you've  been.  But  never  mind.  We'll  pay  the 
debt  sometime,  somehow,  she  and  I.  When  shall  I  see 
you  again?" 

At  that  moment  a  clear  voice  rang  out  cheerily  in  the 
distance.  "Rudyard — where  are  you,  Ruddy?"  it  called. 

A  light  broke  over  Byng's  haggard  face.  "Not  yet?" 
he  asked  Stafford. 

"No,  not  yet,"  was  the  reply,  and  Byng  was  pushed 
through  the  open  door  into  the  street. 

"Ruddy — where  are  you,  Ruddy?"  sang  the  voice  like 
a  morning  song. 

Then  there  was  silence,  save  for  the  music  in  the  room 
beyond  the  little  room  where  the  two  men  had  sat  a  few 
moments  ago. 

The  music  was  still  poured  forth,  but  the  tune  was 
changed.  Now  it  was  "Pagliacci " — that  wonderful  pas- 
sage where  the  injured  husband  pours  out  his  soul  in 
agony. 

Stafford  closed  the  doors  of  the  little  room  where  he 
and  Byng  had  sat,  and  stood  an  instant  listening  to  the 
music.  He  shuddered  as  the  passionate  notes  swept  over 
his  senses.  In  this  music  was  the  note  of  the  character 
of  the  man  who  played — sensuous  emotion,  sensual  de- 
light. There  are  men  who  by  nature  are  as  the  daughters 
of  the  night,  primary  prostitutes,  with  no  minds,  no  moral 
sense;  only  a  sensuous  organization  which  has  a  gift  of 
shallow  beauty,  while  the  life  is  never  deep  enough  for 
tears  nor  high  enough  for  real  joy. 

In  Stafford's  pocket  was  the  revolver  which  Byng  had 
239 


THE  JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

given  him.  He  took  it  out,  and  as  he  did  so,  a  flush  swept 
over  his  face,  and  every  nerve  of  his  body  tingled. 

"That  way  out?"  he  thought.  "How  easy — and  how 
selfish.  ...  If  one's  life  only  concerned  oneself.  .  .  .  But 
it's  only  partly  one's  own  from  first  to  last."  .  .  .  Then  his 
thoughts  turned  again  to  the  man  who  was  playing  "Pag- 
liacci."  "I  have  a  greater  right  to  do  it  than  Byng,  and 
I'd  have  a  greater  joy  in  doing  it;  but  whatever  he  is, 
it  is  not  all  his  fault."  Again  he  shuddered.  "No  man 
makes  love  like  that  to  a  woman  unless  she  lets  him,  .  .  . 
until  she  lets  him."  Then  he  looked  at  the  fire  where 
the  cruel  testimony  had  shrivelled  into  smoke.  "If  it 
had  been  read  to  a  jury  .  .  .  Ah,  my  God!  How  many 
he  must  have  written  her  like  that  .  .  .  How  often.  ..." 

With  an  effort  he  pulled  himself  together.  "What  does 
it  matter  now!  All  things  have  come  to  an  end  for  me. 
There  is  only  one  way.  My  letter  to  her  showed  it.  But 
this  must  be  settled  first.  Then  to  see  her  for  the  last 
time,  to  make  her  understand.  ..." 

He  went  to  the  beaded  curtain,  raised  it,  and  stepped 
into  the  flood  of  warm  sunlight.  The  voluptuous, 
agonizing  music  came  in  a  wave  over  him.  Tragedy, 
poignant  misery,  rang  through  every  note,  swelled  in  a 
stream  which  drowned  the  senses.  This  man-devil  could 
play,  Stafford  remarked,  cynically,  to  himself. 

"A  moment — Fellowes,"  he  said,  sharply. 

The  music  frayed  into  a  discord  and  stopped. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    BURNING   FIERY   FURNACE 

''THERE  was  that  in  Stafford's  tone  which  made  Fel- 
1  lowes  turn  with  a  start.  It  was  to  this  room  that 
Fellowes  had  begged  Jasmine  to  come  this  morning,  in 
the  letter  which  Krool  had  so  carefully  placed  for  his 
master  to  find,  after  having  read  it  himself  with  minute 
scrutiny.  It  was  in  this  room  they  had  met  so  often  in 
those  days  when  Rudyard  was  in  South  Africa,  and  where 
music  had  been  the  medium  of  an  intimacy  which  had 
nothing  for  its  warrant  save  eternal  vanity  and  curiosity, 
the  evil  genius  of  the  race  of  women.  Here  it  was  that 
Krool's  antipathy  to  Jasmine  and  fierce  hatred  of  Fellowes 
had  been  nurtured.  Krool  had  haunted  the  room,  de- 
siring the  end  of  it  all;  but  he  had  been  disarmed  by  a 
smiling  kindness  on  Jasmine's  part,  which  shook  his  pur- 
pose again  and  again. 

It  had  all  been  a  problem  which  Krool's  furtive  mind 
failed  to  master.  If  he  went  to  the  Baas  with  his  sus- 
picions, the  chance  was  that  he  would  be  flayed  with  a 
sjambok  and  turned  into  the  streets;  if  he  warned  Jas- 
mine, the  same  thing  might  happen,  or  worse.  But  fate 
had  at  last  played  into  his  hands,  on  the  very  day  that 
Oom  Paul  had  challenged  destiny,  when  all  things  were 
ready  for  the  ruin  of  the  hated  English. 

Fate  had  sent  him  through  the  hallway  between  Jas- 
mine's and  Rudyard's  rooms  in  the  moment  when  Jas- 
mine had  dropped  Fellowes'  letter;  and  he  had  seen  it 
fall.  He  knew  not  what  it  was,  but  it  might  be  of  im- 
portance, for  he  had  seen  Fellowes'  handwriting  on  an 
241 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

envelope  among  those  waiting  for  Jasmine's  return  home. 
In  a  far  dark  corner  he  had  waited  till  he  saw  Lablanche 
enter  her  mistress'  room  hurriedly,  without  observing 
the  letter.  Then  he  caught  it  up  and  stole  away  to  the 
library,  where  he  read  it  with  malevolent  eyes. 

He  had  left  this  fateful  letter  where  Rudyard  would 
see  it  when  he  rose  in  the  morning.  All  had  worked  out 
as  he  had  planned,  and  now,  with  his  ear  against  the  door 
which  led  from  the  music-room,  he  strained  to  hear  what 
passed  between  Stafford  and  Fellcwes. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  asked  Fellowes,  with  an  attempt 
to  be  casual,  though  there  was  that  in  Stafford's  face 
which  gave  him  anxiety,  he  knew  not  why.  He  had  ex- 
pected Jasmine,  and,  instead,  here  was  Stafford,  who  had 
been  so  much  with  her  of  late;  who,  with  Mennaval,  had 
occupied  so  much  of  her  time  that  she  had  scarcely  spoken 
to  him,  and,  when  she  did  so,  it  was  with  a  detachment 
which  excluded  him  from  intimate  consideration. 

His  face  wore  a  mechanical  smile,  as  his  pale  blue  eyes 
met  the  dark  intensity  of  Stafford's.  But  slowly  the 
peach-bloom  of  his  cheeks  faded  and  his  long,  tapering 
fingers  played  nervously  with  the  leather-trimming  of  the 
piano-stool. 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Stafford?"  he  added,  with 
attempted  nonchalance. 

"There  is  nothing  you  can  do  for  me,"  was  the  mean- 
ing reply,  "but  there  is  something  you  can  do  ad- 
vantageously for  yourself,  if  you  will  think  it  worth 
while." 

"Most  of  us  are  ready  to  do  ourselves  good  turns. 
What  am  I  to  do?" 

"You  will  wish  to  avoid  it,  and  yet  you  will,  do  your- 
self a  good  turn  in  not  avoiding  it." 

"Is  that  the  way  you  talk  in  diplomatic  circles — 
cryptic,  they  call  it,  don't  they?" 

Stafford's  chin  hardened,  and  a  look  of  repulsion  and 
disdain  crossed  over  his  face. 
,243 


THE   FIERY    FURNACE 

"It  is  more  cryptic,  I  confess,  than  the  letter  which 
will  cause  you  to  do  yourself  a  good  turn." 

Now  Fellowes'  face  turned  white.  "What  letter?"  he 
asked,  in  a  sharp,  querulous  voice. 

"The  letter  you  wrote  Mrs.  Byng  from  the  Trafalgar 
Club  yesterday." 

Fellowes  made  a  feint,  an  attempt  at  bravado.  "What 
business  is  it  of  yours,  anyhow?  What  rights  have  you 
got  in  Mrs.  Byng's  letters?" 

"Only  what  I  get  from  a  higher  authority." 

"Are  you  in  sweet  spiritual  partnership  with  the 
Trinity?" 

"The  higher  authority  I  mean  is  Mr.  Byng.  Let  us 
have  no  tricks  with  words,  you  fool." 

Fellowes  made  an  ineffective  attempt  at  self-possession. 

"What  the  devil  .  .  .  why  should  I  listen  to  you?" 
There  was  a  peevish  stubbornness  in  the  tone. 

"Why  should  you  listen  to  me?  Well,  because  I  have 
saved  your  life.  That  should  be  sufficient  reason  for  you 
to  listen." 

"Damnation — speak  out,  if  you've  got  anything  to 
say!  I  don't  see  what  you  mean,  and  you  are  damned 
officious.  Yes,  that's  it — damned  officious."  The  peev- 
ishness was  becoming  insolent  recklessness. 

Slowly  Stafford  drew  from  his  pocket  the  revolver  Rud- 
yard  had  given  him.  As  Fellowes  caught  sight  of  the 
glittering  steel  he  fell  back  against  the  piano-stool,  making 
a  clatter,  his  face  livid. 

Stafford's  lips  curled  with  contempt.  "Don't  squirm 
so,  Fellowes.  I'm  not  going  to  use  it.  But  Mr.  Byng 
had  it,  and  he  was  going  to  use  it.  He  was  on  his  way 
to  do  it  when  I  appeared.  I  stopped  him  ...  I  will 
tell  you  how.  I  endeavoured  to  make  him  believe  that 
she  was  absolutely  innocent,  that  you  had  only  been 
an  insufferably  insolent,  presumptuous,  and  lecherous 
cad — which  is  true.  I  said  that,  though  you  deserved 
shooting,  it  would  only  bring  scandal  to  Rudyard  Byng's 
243 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

honourable  wife,  who  had  been  insulted  by  the  lover  of 
Al'mah  and  the  would-be  betrayer  of  an  honest  girl — of 
Jigger's  sister.  .  .  .  Yes,  you  may  well  start.  I  know  of 
what  stuff  you  are,  how  you  had  the  soul  and  body  of 
one  of  the  most  credulous  and  wonderful  women  in  the 
world  in  your  hands,  and  you  went  scavenging.  From 
Al'mah  to  the  flower-girl!  ...  I  think  I  should  like 
to  kill  you  myself  for  what  you  tried  to  do  to  Jigger's 
sister;  and  if  it  wasn't  here" — he  handled  the  little  steel 
weapon  with  an  eager  fondness — "  I  think  I'd  do  it.  You 
are  a  pest." 

Cowed,  shivering,  abject,  Fellowes  nervously  fell  back. 
His  body  crashed  upon  the  keys  of  the  piano,  producing 
a  hideous  discord.  Startled,  he  sprang  aside  and  with 
trembling  hands  made  gestures  of  appeal. 

"Don't — don't!  Can't  you  see  I'm  willing!  What  is 
it  you  want  me  to  do?  I'll  do  it.  Put  it  away.  .  .  .  Oh, 
my  God — Oh!"  His  bloodless  lips  were  drawn  over  his 
teeth  in  a  grimace  of  terror. 

With  an  exclamation  of  contempt  Stafford  put  the 
weapon  back  into  his  pocket  again.  "Pull  yourself  to- 
gether," he  said.  "Your  life  is  safe  for  the  moment;  but 
I  can  say  no  more  than  that.  After  I  had  proved  the 
lady's  innocence — you  understand,  after  I  had  proved  the 
lady's  innocence  to  him, — " 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  came  the  hoarse  reply. 

"After  that,  I  said  I  would  deal  with  you;  that  he  could 
not  be  trusted  to  do  so.  I  said  that  you  would  leave 
England  within  twenty-four  hours,  and  that  you  would 
not  return  within  three  years.  That  was  my  pledge. 
You  are  prepared  to  fulfil  it?" 

"To  leave  England!    It  is  impossible — : 

"  Perhaps  to  leave  it  permanently,  and  not  by  the  Eng- 
lish Channel,  either,  might  be  worse,"  was  the  cold,  sav- 
age reply.  "Mr.  Byng  made  his  terms." 

Fellowes  shivered.  "What  am  I  to  do  out  of  Eng- 
land— but,  yes,  I'll  go,  I'll  go,"  he  added,  as  he  saw  the 
244 


THE    FIERY    FURNACE 

look  in  Stafford's  face  and  thought  of  the  revolver  so 
near  to  Stafford's  hand. 

"Yes,  of  course  you  will  go,"  was  the  stern  retort. 
"You  will  go,  just  as  I  say." 

"What  shall  I  do  abroad?"  wailed  the  weak  voice. 

"What  you  have  always  done  here,  I  suppose — live 
on  others,"  was  the  crashing  reply.  "The  venue  will  be 
changed,  but  you  won't  change,  not  you.  If  I  were  you, 
I'd  try  and  not  meet  Jigger  before  you  go.  He  doesn't 
know  quite  what  it  is,  but  he  knows  enough  to  make  him 
reckless." 

Fellowes  moved  towards  the  door  in  a  stumbling  kind 
of  way.  "I  have  some  things  up-stairs,"  he  said. 

"They  will  be  sent  after  you  to  your  chambers.  Give 
me  the  keys  to  the  desk  in  the  secretary's  room." 

"I'll  go  myself,  and — " 

"You  will  leave  this  house  at  once,  and  everything  will 
be  sent  after  you — everything.  Have  no  fear.  I  will  send 
them  myself,  and  your  letters  and  private  papers  will  not 
be  read.  .  .  .  You  feel  you  can  rely  on  me  for  that — eh?" 

"Yes  ...  I'll  go  now  .  .  .  abroad  .  .  .  where?" 

"Where  you  please  outside  the  United  Kingdom." 

Fellowes  passed  heavily  out  through  the  other  room, 
where  his  letter  had  been  read  by  Stafford,  where  his  fate 
had  been  decided.  He  put  on  his  overcoat  nervously  and 
went  to  the  outer  door. 

Stafford  came  up  to  him  again.  "You  understand, 
there  must  be  no  attempt  to  communicate  here.  .  .  .  You 
will  observe  this?" 

Fellowes  nodded.  "Yes,  I  will.  .  .  .  Good-night,"  he 
added,  absently. 

"Good-day,"  answered  Stafford,  mechanically. 

The  outer  door  shut,  and  Stafford  turned  again  to  the 
little  room  where  so  much  had  happened  which  must 
change  so  many  lives,  bring  so  many  tears,  divert  so  many 
streams  of  life. 

How  still  the  house  seemed  now!  It  had  lost  all  its 
245 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

charm  and  homelikeness.  He  felt  stifled.  Yet  there 
was  the  warm  sun  streaming  through  the  doorway  of 
the  music-room,  making  the  beaded  curtains  shine  like 
gold. 

As  he  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  little  morning-room, 
looking  in  with  bitter  reflection  and  dreading  beyond 
words  what  now  must  come — his  meeting  with  Jasmine, 
the  story  he  must  tell  her,  and  the  exposure  of  a  truth  so 
naked  that  his  nature  revolted  from  it,  he  heard  a  foot- 
step behind  him.  It  was  Krool. 

Stafford  looked  at  the  saturnine  face  and  wondered  how 
much  he  knew;  but  there  was  no  glimmer  of  revelation  in 
Krool's  impassive  look.  The  eyes  were  always  painful 
in  their  deep  animal-like  glow,  and  they  seemed  more  than 
usually  intense  this  morning;  that  was  all. 

"Will  you  present  my  compliments  to  Mrs.  Byng,  and 
say—" 

Krool,  with  a  gesture,  stopped  him. 

"Mrs.  Byng  is  come  now,"  he  said,  making  a  gesture 
towards  the  staircase.  Then  he  stole  away  towards  the 
servants'  quarters  of  the  house.  His  work  had  been  well 
done,  of  its  kind,  and  he  could  now  await  consequences. 

Stafford  turned  to  the  staircase  and  saw — in  blue,  in 
the  old  sentimental  blue — Jasmine  slowly  descending,  a 
strange  look  of  apprehension  in  her  face. 

Immediately  after  calling  out  for  Rudyard  a  little  while 
before,  she  had  discovered  the  loss  of  Adrian  Fellowes' 
letter.  Hours  before  this  she  had  read  and  re-read 
lan's  letter,  that  document  of  pain  and  purpose,  of 
tragical,  inglorious,  fatal  purpose.  She  was  suddenly 
conscious  of  an  air  of  impending  catastrophe  about  her 
now.  Or  was  it  that  the  catastrophe  had  come?  She 
had  not  asked  for  Adrian  Fellowes'  letter,  for  if  any 
servant  had  found  it,  and  had  not  returned  it,  it  was 
useless  asking;  and  if  Rudyard  had  found  it — if  Rudyard 
had  found  it  .  .  .  ! 

Where  was  Rudyard?  Why  had  he  not  come  to  hen 
246 


THE    FIERY    FURNACE 

Why  had  he  not  eaten  the  breakfast  which  still  lay  un- 
touched on  the  table  of  his  study  ?  Where  was  Rudyard  ? 

lan's  eyes  looked  straight  into  hers  as  she  came  down 
the  staircase,  and  there  was  that  in  them  which  paralyzed 
her.  But  she  made  an  effort  to  ignore  the  apprehension 
which  filled  her  soul. 

"Good-morning.  Am  I  so  very  late?"  she  said,  gaily, 
to  him,  though  there  was  a  hollow  note  in  her  voice. 

"You  are  just  in  time,"  he  answered  in  an  even  tone 
which  told  nothing. 

"Dear  me,  what  a  gloomy  face!  What  has  hap- 
pened? What  is  it?  There  seems  to  be  a  Cassandra 
atmosphere  about  the  place — and  so  early  in  the  day, 
too." 

"It  is  full  noon — and  past,"  he  said,  with  acute  mean- 
ing, as  her  daintily  shod  feet  met  the  floor  of  the  hallway 
and  glided  towards  him.  How  often  he  had  admired  that 
pretty  flitting  of  her  feet! 

As  he  looked  at  her  he  was  conscious,  with  a  new  force, 
of  the  wonder  of  that  hair  on  a  little  head  as  queenly  as 
ever  was  given  to  the  modern  world.  And  her  face, 
albeit  pale,  and  with  a  strange  tremulousness  in  it  now, 
was  like  that  of  some  fairy  dame  painted  by  Greuze. 
All  last  night's  agony  was  gone  from  the  rare  blue  eyes, 
whose  lashes  drooped  so  ravishingly  betimes,  though  that 
droop  was  not  there  as  she  looked  at  Ian  now. 

She  beat  a  foot  nervously  on  the  floor.  "What  is  it — 
why  this  Euripidean  air  in  my  simple  home?  There's 
something  wrong,  I  see.  What  is  it?  Come,  what  is 
it,  Ian?" 

Hesitatingly  she  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm,  but  there 
was  no  loving-kindness  in  his  look.  The  arms  which  yes- 
terday— only  yesterday — had  clasped  her  passionately 
and  hungrily  to  his  breast  now  hung  inert  at  his  side.  His 
eyes  were  strange  and  hard. 

"Will  you  come  in  here,"  he  said,  in  an  arid  voice,  and 
held  wide  the  door  of  the  room  where  he  and  Rudyard 
17  347 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

had  settled  the  first  chapter  of  the  future  and  closed  the 
book  of  the  past. 

She  entered  with  hesitating  step.  Then  he  shut  the 
door  with  an  accentuated  softness,  and  came  to  the  table 
where  he  had  sat  with  Rudyard.  Mechanically  she  took 
the  seat  which  Rudyard  had  occupied,  and  looked  at  him 
across  the  table  with  a  dread  conviction  stealing  over  her 
face,  robbing  it  of  every  vestige  of  its  heavenly  colour, 
giving  her  eyes  a  staring  and  solicitous  look. 

"Well,  what  is  it ?  Can't  you  speak  and  have  it  over?" 
she  asked,  with  desperate  impatience. 

"Fellowes'  letter  to  you — Rudyard  found  it,"  he  said, 
abruptly. 

She  fell  back  as  though  she  had  been  struck,  then  re- 
covered herself.  "  You  read  it?"  she  gasped. 

"Rudyard  made  me  read  it.  I  came  in  when  he  was 
just  about  to  kill  Fellowes." 

She  gave  a  short,  sharp  cry,  which  with  a  spasm  of 
determination  her  fingers  stopped. 

"Kill  him — why?"  she  asked  in  a  weak  voice,  looking 
down  at  her  trembling  hands  which  lay  clasped  on  the 
table  before  her. 

"The  letter— Fellowes'  letter  to  you." 

"I  dropped  it  last  night,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  grown 
strangely  impersonal  and  colourless.  "I  dropped  it  in 
Rudyard's  room,  I  suppose." 

She  seemed  not  to  have  any  idea  of  excluding  the 
terrible  facts,  but  to  be  speaking  as  it  were  to  herself  and 
of  something  not  vital,  though  her  whole  person  was 
transformed  into  an  agony  which  congealed  the  life- 
blood. 

Her  voice  sounded  tuneless  and  ragged.  "He  read  it 
— Rudyard  read  a  letter  which  was  not  addressed  to  him ! 
He  read  a  letter  addressed  to  me — he  read  my  letter.  .  .  . 
It  gave  me  no  chance." 

"No  chance — ?" 

A  bitter  indignation  was  added  to  the  cheerless  discord 
248 


THE    FIERY    FURNACE 

of  her  tones.  "Yes,  I  had  a  chance,  a  last  chance — if  he 
had  not  read  the  letter.  But  now,  there  is  no  chance.  .  .  . 
You  read  it,  too.  You  read  the  letter  which  was  ad- 
dressed to  me.  No  matter  what  it  was  —  my  letter, 
you  read  it." 

"Rudyard  said  to  me  in  his  terrible  agitation,  'Read 
that  letter,  and  then  tell  me  what  you  think  of  the  man 
who  wrote  it.'  ...  I  thought  it  was  the  letter  I  wrote  to 
you,  the  letter  I  posted  to  you  last  night.  I  thought  it 
was  my  letter  to  you." 

Her  eyes  had  a  sudden  absent  look.  It  was  as  though 
she  were  speaking  in  a  trance.  "I  answered  that  letter 
— your  letter.  I  answered  it  this  morning.  Here  is  the 
answer  .  .  .  here."  She  laid  a  letter  on  the  table  before 
him,  then  drew  it  back  again  into  her  lap.  "Now  it  does 
not  matter.  But  it  gives  me  no  chance.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  world  of  despair  and  remorse  in  her  voice. 
Her  face  was  wan  and  strained.  ' '  No  chance,  no  chance," 
she  whispered. 

"Hudyard  did  not  kill  him?"  she  asked,  slowly  and 
cheerlessly,  after  a  moment,  as  though  repeating  a  lesson. 
"Why?" 

"I  stopped  him.     I  prevented  him." 

"You  prevented  him — why?"  Her  eyes  had  a  look  of 
unutterable  confusion  and  trouble.  "Why  did  you  pre- 
vent it — you?" 

"That  would  have  hurt  you — the  scandal,  the  grimy 
press,  the  world." 

Her  voice  was  tuneless,  and  yet  it  had  a  strange,  piteous 
poignancy.  "It  would  have  hurt  me — yes.  Why  did 
you  not  want  to  hurt  me?" 

He  did  not  answer.  His  hands  had  gone  into  his 
pockets,  as  though  to  steady  their  wild  nervousness,  and 
one  had  grasped  the  little  weapon  of  steel  which  Rudyard 
had  given  him.  It  produced  some  strange,  malignant 
effect  on  his  mind.  Everything  seemed  to  stop  in  him, 
and  he  was  suddenly  possessed  by  a  spirit  which  carried 
249 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

him  into  that  same  region  where  Rudyard  had  been.  It 
was  the  region  of  the  abnormal.  In  it  one  moves  in  a 
dream,  majestically  unresponsive  to  all  outward  things, 
numb,  unconcerned,  disregarding  all  except  one's  own 
agony,  which  seems  to  neutralize  the  universe  and  reduce 
all  life's  problems  to  one  formula  of  solution. 

"What  did  you  say  to  him  that  stopped  him?"  she 
asked  in  a  whisper  of  awed  and  dreadful  interest,  as,  after 
an  earthquake,  a  survivor  would  speak  in  the  stillness  of 
dead  and  unburied  millions. 

"I  said  the  one  thing  to  say,"  he  answered  after  a 
moment,  involuntarily  laying  the  pistol  on  the  table  be- 
fore him — doing  it,  as  it  were,  without  conscious  knowl- 
edge. 

It  fascinated  Jasmine,  the  ugly,  deadly  little  vehicle 
of  oblivion.  Her  eyes  fastened  on  it,  and  for  an  instant 
stared  at  it  transfixed;  then  she  recovered  herself  and 
spoke  again. 

"What  was  the  one  thing  to  say?"  she  whispered. 

"That  you  were  innocent — absolutely,  that — " 

Suddenly  she  burst  into  wild  laughter — shrill,  acrid, 
cheerless,  hysterical,  her  face  turned  upward,  her  hands 
clasped  under  her  chin,  her  body  shaking  with  what  was 
not  laughter,  but  the  terrifying  agitation  of  a  broken 
organism. 

He  waited  till  she  had  recovered  somewhat,  and  then 
he  repeated  his  words. 

"I  said  that  you  were  innocent  absolutely;  that  Fel- 
lowes'  letter  was  the  insolence  and  madness  of  a  volupt- 
uary, that  you  had  only  been  wilful  and  indiscreet,  and 
that—" 

In  a  low,  mechanical  tone  from  which  was  absent  any 
agitation,  he  told  her  all  he  had  said  to  Rudyard,  and 
what  Rudyard  had  said  to  him.  Every  word  had  been 
burned  into  his  brain,  and  nearly  every  word  was  now 
repeated,  while  she  sat  silent,  looking  at  her  hands  clasped 
on  the  table  before  her.  When  he  came  to  the  point  where 
250 


THE    FIERY    FURNACE 

Rudyard  went  from  the  house,  leaving  Stafford  to  deal 
with  Fellowes,  she  burst  again  into  laughter,  mocking, 
wilful,  painful. 

"You  were  left  to  set  things  right,  to  be  the  lord  high 
executioner — you,  Ian!" 

How  strange  his  name  sounded  on  her  lips  now — for- 
eign, distant,  revealing  the  nature  of  the  situation  more 
vividly  than  all  the  words  which  had  been  said,  than  all 
that  had  been  done. 

"Rudyard  did  not  think  of  killing  you,  I  suppose,"  she 
went  on,  presently,  with  a  bitter  motion  of  the  lips,  and 
a  sardonic  note  creeping  into  the  voice. 

"No,  /  thought  of  that,"  he  answered,  quietly,  "as  you 
know."  His  eyes  sought  the  weapon  on  the  table  in- 
voluntarily. "That  would  have  been  easy  enough,"  he 
added.  "I  was  not  thinking  of  myself,  or  of  Fellowes, 
but  only  of  you — and  Rudyard." 

"Only  of  me — and  Rudyard,"  she  repeated  with  droop- 
ing eyes,  which  suddenly  became  alive  again  with  feeling 
and  passion  and  wildness.  "Wasn't  it  rather  late  for 
that?" 

The  words  stung  him  beyond  endurance.  He  rose  and 
leaned  across  the  table  towards  her. 

"At  least  I  recognized  what  I  had  done,  what  you  had 
done,  and  I  tried  to  face  it.  I  did  not  disguise  it.  My 
letter  to  you  proves  that.  But  nevertheless  I  was  true 
to  you.  I  did  not  deceive  you — ever.  I  loved  you — 
ah,  I  loved  you  as  few  women  have  been  loved!  .  .  .  But 
you,  you  might  have  made  a  mistake  where  Rudyard  was 
concerned,  made  the  mistake  once,  but  if  you  wronged 
him,  you  wronged  me  infinitely  more.  I  was  ready  to 
give  up  all,  throw  all  my  life,  my  career,  to  the  winds, 
and  prove  myself  loyal  to  that  which  was  more  than 
all;  or  I  was  willing  to  eliminate  myself  from  the  scene 
forever.  I  was  willing  to  pay  the  price — any  price — just 
to  stand  by  what  was  the  biggest  thing  in  my  life.  But 
you  were  true  to  nothing — to  nothing — to  nobody." 
251 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"If  one  is  untrue — once,  why  be  true  at  all  ever?'*  she 
said  with  an  aching  laugh,  through  which  tears  ran, 
though  none  dropped  from  her  eyes.  "If  one  is  untrue 
to  one,  why  not  to  a  thousand?" 

Again  a  mocking  laugh  burst  from  her.  "Don't  you 
see?  One  kiss,  a  wrong?  Why  not,  then,  a  thousand 
kisses!  The  wrong  came  in  the  moment  that  the  one  kiss 
was  given.  It  is  the  one  that  kills,  not  the  thousand 
after." 

There  came  to  her  mind  again — and  now  with  what 
sardonic  force — Rudyard's  words  that  day  before  they 
went  to  Glencader:  " //  you  had  lived  a  thousand  years  ago 
you  would  have  had  a  thousand  lovers" 

"And  so  it  is  all  understood  between  you  and  Rudyard," 
she  added,  mechanically.  "That  is  what  you  have  ar- 
ranged for  me — that  I  go  on  living  as  before  with  Rudyard, 
while  I  am  not  to  know  from  him  anything  has  happened; 
but  to  accept  what  has  been  arranged  for  me,  and  to  be 
repentant  and  good  and  live  in  sackcloth.  It  has  been 
arranged,  has  it,  that  Rudyard  is  to  believe  in  me?" 

"That  has  not  been  arranged." 

"It  has  been  arranged  that  I  am  to  live  with  him  as 
before,  and  that  he  is  to  pretend  to  love  me  as  before, 
and — " 

"He  does  love  you  as  before.  He  has  never  changed 
He  believed  in  you,  was  so  pitifully  eager  to  believe  in 
you  even  when  the  letter — " 

"Where  is  the  letter?" 

He  pointed  to  the  fire. 

"Who  put  it  in  the  fire?"  she  asked.     "You?" 

He  inclined  his  head. 

"Ah  yes,  always  so  clever!  A  burst  of  indignation  at 
his  daring  to  suspect  me  even  for  an  instant,  and  with  a 
flourish  into  the  fire,  the  evidence.  Here  is  yours — your 
letter.  Would  you  like  to  put  it  into  the  fire  also?"  she 
asked,  and  drew  his  letter  from  the  folds  of  her  dress. 

"But,  no,  no,  no — "     She  suddenly  sprang  to  her  feet, 
252 


THE    FIERY   FURNACE 

and  her  eyes  had  a  look  of  agonized  agitation.  "When 
I  have  learned  every  word  by  heart,  I  will  burn  it  myself 
— for  your  sake."  Her  voice  grew  softer,  something  less 
discordant  came  into  it.  "You  will  never  understand. 
You  could  never  understand  me,  or  that  letter  of  Adrian 
Fellowes  to  me,  and  that  he  could  dare  to  write  me  such 
a  letter.  You  could  never  understand  it.  But  I  under- 
stand you.  I  understand  your  letter.  It  came  while  I 
was — while  I  was  broken.  It  healed  me,  Ian,  Last  night 
I  wanted  to  kill  myself.  Never  mind  why.  You  would 
not  understand.  You  are  too  good  to  understand.  All 
night  I  was  in  torture,  and  then  this  letter  of  yours — it 
was  a  revelation.  I  did  not  think  that  a  man  lived  like 
you,  so  true,  so  kind,  so  mad.  And  so  I  wrote  you  a 
letter,  ah,  a  letter  from  my  soul !  and  then  came  down 
to  this — the  end  of  all.  The  end  of  everything — for- 
ever." 

"No,  the  beginning  if  you  will  have  it  so.  ...  Rudyard 
loves  you  ..." 

She  gave  a  cry  of  agony.  "For  God's  sake — oh,  for 
God's  sake,  hush! .  .  .  You  think  that  now  I  could  ..." 

"Begin  again  with  new  purpose." 

"Purpose!  Oh,  you  fool!  You  fool!  You  fool — you 
who  are  so  wise  sometimes!  You  want  me  to  begin  again 
with  Rudyard:  and  you  do  not  want  me  to  begin  again 
— with  you?" 

He  was  silent,  and  he  looked  her  in  the  eyes  steadily. 

"You  do  not  want  me  to  begin  again  with  you,  because 
you  believe  me — because  you  believed  the  worst  from  that 
letter,  from  Adrian  Fellowes'  letter.  .  .  .  You  believed,  yet 
you  hypnotized  Rudyard  into  not  believing.  But  did 
you,  after  all?  Was  it  not  that  he  loves  me,  and  that  he 
wanted  to  be  deceived,  wanted  to  be  forced  to  do  what 
he  has  done?  I  know  him  better  than  you.  But  you 
are  right,  he  would  have  spoken  to  me  about  it  if  you 
had  not  warned  him." 

"Then  begin  again — " 

253 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"You  do  not  want  me  any  more."  The  voice  had  an 
anguish  like  the  cry  of  the  tragic  music  in  "Elektra." 
"You  do  not  want  what  you  wanted  yesterday — for  us 
together  to  face  it  all,  Ian.  You  do  not  want  it?  You 
hate  me." 

His  face  was  disturbed  by  emotion,  and  he  did  not 
speak  for  a  moment. 

In  that  moment  she  became  transformed.  With  a 
sudden  tragic  motion  she  caught  the  pistol  from  the  table 
and  raised  it,  but  he  wrenched  it  from  her  hand. 

"Do  you  think  that  would  mend  anything?"  he  asked, 
with  a  new  pity  in  his  heart  for  her.  "That  would  only 
hurt  those  who  have  been  hurt  enough  already.  Be  a  little 
magnanimous.  Do  not  be  selfish.  Give  others  a  chance." 

"You  were  going  to  do  it  as  an  act  of  unselfishness," 
she  moaned.  "  You  were  going  to  die  in  order  to  mend  it 
all.  Did  you  think  of  me  in  that?  Did  you  think  I 
would  or  could  consent  to  that?  You  believed  in  me,  of 
course,  when  you  wrote  it.  But  did  you  think  that  was 
magnanimous — when  you  had  got  a  woman's  love,  then 
to  kill  yourcelf  in  order  to  cure  her?  Oh,  how  little 
you  know!  .  .  .  But  you  do  not  want  me  now.  You  do 
not  believe  in  me  now.  You  abhor  me.  Yet  if  that  letter 
had  not  fallen  into  Rudyard's  hands  we  might  perhaps 
have  now  been  on  our  way  to  begin  life  again  together. 
Does  that  look  as  though  there  was  some  one  else  that 
mattered — that  mattered?"  t 

He  held  himself  together  with  all  his  power  and  will. 
"There  is  one  way,  and  only  one  way,"  he  said,  firmly. 
"Rudyard  loves  you.  Begin  again  with  him."  His 
voice  became  lower.  "You  know  the  emptiness  of  your 
home.  There  is  a  way  to  make  some  recompense  to  him. 
You  can  pay  your  debt.  Give  him  what  he  wants  so 
much.  It  would  be  a  link.  It  would  bind  you.  A 
child  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  how  you  loathe  me!"  she  said,  shudderingly. 
"Yesterday — and  now  .  .  .  No,  no,  no,"  she  added,  "  I  will 
254 


THE    FIERY    FURNACE 

not,  cannot  live  with  Rudyard.  I  cannot  wrench  my- 
self from  one  world  into  another  like  that.  I  will  not 
live  with  him  any  more.  .  .  .  There — listen." 

Outside  the  newsboys  were  calling: 

''Extra  speshul!  Extra  speshul!  All  about  the  war! 
War  declared!  Extra  speshul  T' 

' '  War !  That  will  separate  many, ' '  she  added.  ' '  It  will 
separate  Rudyard  and  me.  .  .  .  No,  no,  there  will  be  no 
more  scandal.  .  .  .  But  it  is  the  way  of  escape — the  war." 

"The  way  of  escape  for  us  all,  perhaps,"  he  answered, 
with  a  light  of  determination  in  his  eyes.  "Good-bye," 
he  added,  after  a  slight  pause.  "There  is  nothing  more 
to  say." 

He  turned  to  go,  but  he  did  not  hold  out  his  hand, 
nor  even  look  at  her. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  in  a  strange,  cold  tone,  "tell  me, 
did  Adrian  Fellowes — did  he  protect  me?  Did  he  stand 
up  for  me?  Did  he  defend  me?" 

"He  was  concerned  only  for  himself,"  Ian  answered, 
hesitatingly. 

Her  face  hardened.  Pitiful,  haggard  lines  had  come 
into  it  in  the  last  half-hour,  and  they  deepened  still  more. 

"He  did  not  say  one  word  to  put  me  right?" 

Ian  shook  his  head  in  negation.  "What  did  you  ex- 
pect?" he  said. 

She  sank  into  a  chair,  and  a  strange  cruelty  came  into 
her  eyes,  something  so  hard  that  it  looked  grotesque  in 
the  beautiful  setting  of  her  pain-worn,  exquisite  face. 

So  utter  was  her  dejection  that  he  came  back  from  the 
door  and  bent  over  her. 

"Jasmine,"  he  said,  gently,  "we  have  to  start  again, 
you  and  I — in  different  paths.  They  will  never  meet. 
But  at  the  end  of  the  road — peace.  Peace  the  best  thing 
of  all.  Let  us  try  and  find  it,  Jasmine." 

"He  did  not  try  to  protect  me.     He  did  not  defend 
me,"  she  kept  saying  to  herself,  and  was  only  half  con- 
scious of  what  Ian  said  to  her. 
255 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

He  touched  her  shoulder.  "Nothing  can  set  things 
right  between  you  and  me,  Jasmine,"  he  added,  unstead- 
ily, "but  there's  Rudyard — you  must  help  him  through. 
He  heard  scandal  about  Mennaval  last  night  at  De  Lancy 
Scovel's.  He  didn't  believe  it.  It  rests  with  you  to  give 
it  all  the  lie.  ...  Good-bye." 

In  a  moment  he  was  gone.  As  the  door  closed  she 
sprang  to  her  feet.  "Ian — Ian — come  back,"  she  cried. 
"Ian,  one  word — one  word." 

But  the  door  did  not  open  again.  For  a  moment  she 
stood  like  one  transfixed,  staring  at  the  place  whence  he 
had  vanished,  then,  with  a  moan,  she  sank  in  a  heap  on 
the  floor,  and  rocked  to  and  fro  like  one  demented. 

Once  the  door  opened  quietly,  and  Krool's  face  showed, 
sinister  and  furtive,  but  she  did  not  see  it,  and  the  door 
closed  again  softly. 

At  last  the  paroxysms  passed,  and  a  haggard  face 
looked  out  into  the  world  of  life  and  being  with  eyes  which 
were  drowned  in  misery. 

"He  did  not  defend  me — the  coward!"  she  murmured; 
then  she  rose  with  a  sudden  effort,  swayed,  steadied  her- 
self, and  arranged  her  hair  in  the  mirror  over  the  mantel- 
piece. "The  low  coward!"  she  said  again.  "But  before 
he  leaves  .  .  .  before  he  leaves  England  ..." 

As  she  turned  to  go  from  the  room,  Rudyard's  portrait 
on  the  wall  met  her  eyes.  "  I  can't  go  on,  Rudyard,"  she 
said  to  it.  "I  know  that  now." 

Out  in  the  streets,  which  Ian  Stafford  travelled  with 
hasty  steps,  the  newsboys  were  calling: 

"War  declared!     All  about  the  war!'' 

"That  is  the  way  out  for  me,"  Stafford  said,  aloud,  as 
he  hastened  on.  "That  opens  up  the  road.  ...  I'm  still 
an  artillery  officer." 

He  directed  his  swift,  steps  toward  Pall  Mall  and  the 
War  Office. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

IN   WHICH   FELLOWES   GOES   A   JOURNEY 


ultimatum,  expected  though  it  was,  shook 
v  England  as  nothing  had  done  since  the  Indian  mutiny, 
but  the  tremour  of  national  excitement  presently  gave  way 
to  a  quiet,  deep  determination. 

An  almost  Oriental  luxury  had  gone  far  to  weaken  the 
fibre  of  that  strong  and  opulent  middle-class  who  had 
been  the  backbone  of  England,  the  entrenched  Philis- 
tines. The  value  of  birth  as  a  moral  asset  which  had  a 
national  duty  and  a  national  influence,  and  the  value  of 
money  which  had  a  social  responsibility  and  a  communal 
use,  were  unrealized  by  the  many  nouveaux  riches  who 
frequented  the  fashionable  purlieus  ;  who  gave  vast  parties 
where  display  and  extravagance  were  the  principal  fea- 
ture; who  ostentatiously  offered  large  sums  to  public  ob- 
jects. Men  who  had  made  their  money  where  copper  or 
gold  or  oil  or  wool  or  silver  or  cattle  or  railways  made 
commercial  kings,  supported  schemes  for  the  public 
welfare  brought  them  by  fine  ladies,  largely  because  the 
ladies  were  fine;  and  they  gave  substantial  sums  —  upon 
occasion  —  for  these  fine  ladies'  fine  causes.  Rich  men,  or 
reputed  rich  men,  whose  wives  never  appeared,  who  were 
kept  in  secluded  quarters  in  Bloomsbury  or  Maida  Vale, 
gave  dinners  at  the  Savoy  or  the  Carlton  which  the 
scrapings  of  the  aristocracy  attended;  but  these  gave  no 
dinners  in  return. 

To  get  money  to  do  things,  no  matter  how,  —  or  little 
matter  how;   to  be  in  the  swim,  and  that  swim  all  too 
rapidly  washing  out  the  real  people  —  that  was  the  almost 
257 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

universal  ambition.  But  still  the  real  people,  however 
few  or  many,  in  the  time  of  trouble  came  quietly  into  the 
necessary  and  appointed  places  with  the  automatic  pre- 
cision of  the  disciplined  friend  of  the  state  and  of  humanity ; 
and  behind  them  were  folk  of  the  humbler  sort,  the  lower 
middle-class,  the  labouring-man.  Of  these  were  the  land- 
poor  peer,  with  his  sense  of  responsibility  cultivated  by 
daily  life  and  duty  in  his  county,  on  the  one  hand;  the 
professional  man  of  all  professions,  the  little  merchant, 
the  sailor,  the  clerk  and  artisan,  the  digger  and  delver, 
on  the  other;  and,  in  between,  those  people  in  the  shires 
who  had  not  yet  come  to  be  material  and  gross,  who  had 
old-fashioned  ideas  of  the  duty  of  the  citizen  and  the 
Christian.  In  the  day  of  darkness  these  came  and  laid 
what  they  had  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  of  sacrifice. 

This  at  least  the  war  did:  it  served  as  a  sieve  to  sift 
the  people,  and  it  served  as  the  solvent  of  many  a  life- 
problem. 

Ian  Stafford  was  among  the  first  to  whom  it  offered 
"the  way  out,"  who  went  to  it  for  the  solution  of  their 
own  set  problem.  Suddenly,  as  he  stood  with  Jasmine 
in  the  little  room  where  so  many  lives  were  tossed  into 
the  crucible  of  Fate  that  morning,  the  newsboy's  voice 
shouting,  "War  declared !"  had  told  him  the  path  he 
must  tread. 

He  had  astonished  the  War  Office  by  his  request  to  be 
sent  to  the  Front  with  his  old  arm,  the  artillery,  and  he 
was  himself  astonished  by  the  instant  assent  that  was 
given.  And  now  on  this  October  day  he  was  on  his  way 
to  do  two  things — to  see  whether  Adrian  Fellowes  was 
keeping  his  promise,  and  to  visit  Jigger  and  his  sister. 

There  had  not  been  a  week  since  the  days  at  Glencader 
when  he  had  not  gone  to  the  sordid  quarters  in  the  Mile 
End  Road  to  see  Jigger,  and  to  hear  from  him  how  his 
sister  was  doing  at  the  opera,  until  two  days  before,  when 
he  had  learned  from  Lou  herself  what  she  had  suffered  at 
the  hands  of  Adrian  Fellowes.  That  problem  would  now 
258 


FELLOWES    GOES    A   JOURNEY 

be  settled  forever;  but  there  remained  the  question  of 
Jigger,  and  that  must  be  settled,  whatever  the  other  grave 
problems  facing  him.  Jigger  must  be  cared  for,  must  be 
placed  in  a  position  where  he  could  have  his  start  in  life. 
Somehow  Jigger  was  associated  with  all  the  movements  of 
his  life  now,  and  was  taken  as  part  of  the  problem.  What 
to  do?  He  thought  of  it  as  he  went  eastward,  and  it  did 
not  seem  easy  to  settle  it.  Jigger  himself,  however,  cut 
the  Gordian  knot. 

When  he  was  told  that  Stafford  was  going  to  South 
Africa,  and  that  it  was  a  question  as  to  what  he — Jigger 
— should  now  do,  in  what  sphere  of  life  his  abnormally 
"cute"  mind  must  run,  he  answered,  instantly. 

"I'm  goin'  wiv  y'r  gryce,"  he  said.  "That's  it — 
stryght.  I'm  goin'  out  there  wiv  you." 

Ian  shook  his  head  and  smiled  sadly.  "I'm  afraid 
that's  not  for  you,  Jigger.  No,  think  again." 

"Ain't  there  work  in  Souf  Afriker — maybe  not  in  the 
army  itself,  y'r  gryce?  Couldn't  I  have  me  chanct  out 
there  ?  Lou's  all  right  now,  I  bet ;  an'  I  could  go  as  easy 
as  can  be." 

"Yes,  Lou  will  be  all  right  now,"  remarked  Stafford, 
with  a  reflective  irony. 

"I  ain't  got  no  stiddy  job  here,  and  there's  work  in 
Souf  Afriker,  ain't  they?  Couldn't  I  get  a  job  holdin' 
horses,  or  carryin'  a  flag,  or  cleanin'  the  guns,  or  nippin' 
letters  about — couldn't  I,  y'r  gryce?  I'm  only  askin' 
to  go  wiv  you,  to  work,  same  as  ever  I  did  before  I  was 
run  over.  Ain't  I  goin'  wiv  you,  y'r  gryce?" 

With  a  sudden  resolve  Stafford  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der. "Yes,  you  are  going  'wiv'  me,  Jigger.  You  just 
are,  horse,  foot,  and  artillery.  There'll  be  a  job  some- 
where. I'll  get  you  something  to  do,  or — " 

"Or  bust,  y'r  gryce?" 

So  the  problem  lessened,  and  lan's  face  cleared  a  little. 
If  all  the  difficulties  perplexing  his  life  would  only  clear 
like  that !  The  babe  and  the  suckling  had  found  the  way 
259 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

so  simple,  so  natural ;  and  it  was  a  comforting  way,  for  he 
had  a  deep  and  tender  regard  for  this  quaint,  clever  waif 
who  had  drifted  across  his  path. 

To-morrow  he  would  come  and  fetch  Jigger;  and  Jig- 
ger's face  followed  him  into  the  coming  dusk,  radiant  and 
hopeful  and  full  of  life — of  life  that  mattered.  Jigger 
would  go  out  to  "Souf  Afriker"  with  all  his  life  before 
him,  but  he,  Ian  Stafford,  would  go  with  all  his  life  behind 
him,  all  mile-stones  passed  except  one. 

So,  brooding,  he  walked  till  he  came  to  an  underground 
station,  and  there  took  a  train  to  Charing  Cross.  Here 
he  was  only  a  little  distance  away  from  the  Embankment, 
where  was  to  be  found  Adrian  Fellowes;  and  with  bent 
head  he  made  his  way  among  the  motley  crowd  in  front 
of  the  station,  scarcely  noticing  any  one,  yet  resenting  the 
jostle  and  the  crush.  Suddenly  in  the  crowd  in  front  of 
him  he  saw  Krool  stealing  along  with  a  wide-awake  hat 
well  down  over  his  eyes.  Presently  the  sinister  figure  was 
lost  in  the  confusion.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  per- 
haps Krool  might  be  making  for  the  same  destination  as 
himself;  but  the  sight  of  the  man  threw  his  mind  into  an 
eddy  of  torturing  thoughts. 

The  flare  of  light,  white  and  ghastly,  at  Charing  Cross 
was  shining  on  a  moving  mass  of  people,  so  many  of  whom 
were  ghastly  also — derelicts  of  humanity,  ruins  of  woman- 
hood, casuals,  adventurers,  scavengers  of  life,  prowlers 
who  lived  upon  chance,  upon  cards,  upon  theft,-  upon 
women,  upon  libertines  who  waited  in  these  precincts  for 
some  foolish  and  innocent  woman  whom  they  could  en- 
trap. Among  them  moved  also  the  thousand  other  good 
citizens  bent  upon  catching  trains  or  wending  their  way 
home  from  work;  but  in  the  garish,  cruel  light,  all,  even 
the  good,  looked  evil  in  a  way,  and  furtive  and  unstable. 
To-night,  the  crowd  were  far  more  restless  than  usual, 
far  more  irritating  in  their  purposeless  movements.  Peo- 
ple sauntered,  jerked  themselves  forward,  moved  in  and 
260 


FELLOWES    GOES    A   JOURNEY 

out,  as  it  were,  intent  on  going  everywhere  and  nowhere; 
and  the  excitement  possessing  them,  the  agitation  in  the 
air,  made  them  seem  still  more  exasperating,  and  be- 
wildering. Newsboys  with  shrill  voices  rasped  the  air 
with  invitations  to  buy,  and  everywhere  eager,  nervous 
hands  held  out  their  half -pennies  for  the  flimsy  sensational 
rags. 

Presently  a  girl  jostled  Stafford,  then  apologized  with 
an  endearing  word  which  brought  a  sick  sensation  to  his 
brain;  but  he  only  shook  his  head  gravely  at  her.  After 
all,  she  had  a  hard  trade  and  it  led  nowhere — nowhere. 

"Coming  home  with  me,  darling?"  she  added  in  re- 
sponse to  his  meditative  look.  Anything  that  was  not 
actual  rebuff  was  invitation  to  her  blunted  sense.  "  Com- 
ing home  with  me — ?" 

Home!  A  wave  of  black  cynicism,  of  sardonic  mirth 
passed  through  Stafford's  brain.  Home — where  the 
business  of  this  poor  wayfarer's  existence  was  carried  on, 
where  the  shopkeeper  sold  her  wares  in  the  inner  sanctu- 
ary !  Home.  .  .  .  He  shook  the  girl's  hand  from  his  elbow 
and  hastened  on. 

Yet  why  should  he  be  angered  with  her,  he  said  to  him- 
self. It  was  not  moral  elevation  which  had  made  him 
rough  with  her,  but  only  that  word  Home  she  used.  .  .  . 
The  dire  mockery  of  it  burned  his  mind  like  a  corrosive 
acid.  He  had  had  no  home  since  his  father  died  years 
ago, — his  mother  had  died  when  he  was  very  young — and 
his  eldest  brother  had  taken  possession-  of  the  family 
mansions,  placing  them  in  the  control  of  his  foreign  wife, 
who  sat  in  his  mother's  chair  and  in  her  place  at  table. 

He  had  wished  so  often  in  the  past  for  a  home  of  his 
own,  where  he  could  gather  round  him  young  faces  and 
lose  himself  in  promoting  the  interests  of  those  for  whom 
he  had  become  forever  responsible.  He  had  longed  for 
the  Englishman's  castle,  for  his  own  little  realm  of  interest 
where  he  could  be  supreme;  and  now  it  was  never  to  be. 

The  idea  gained  in  sacred  importance  as  it  receded  for- 
261 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

ever  from  all  possibility.  In  f ar-off  days  it  had  been  asso- 
ciated with  a  vision  in  blue,  with  a  face  like  a  dresden- 
china  shepherdess  and  hair  like  Aphrodite's.  Laughter 
and  wit  and  raillery  had  been  part  of  the  picture;  and  long 
evenings  in  the  winter- time,  when  they  two  would  read  the 
books  they  both  loved,  and  maybe  talk  awhile  of  world 
events  in  which  his  work  had  place ;  in  which  his  gifts  were 
found,  shaping,  influencing,  producing.  The  garden,  the 
orchard — he  loved  orchards — the  hedges  of  flowering  ivy 
and  lilacs;  and  the  fine  grey  and  chestnut  horses  driven 
by  his  hand  or  hers  through  country  lanes;  the  smell  of 
the  fallen  leaves  in  the  autumn  evenings;  or  the  sting  of 
the  bracing  January  wind  across  the  moors  or  where  the 
woodcock  awaited  its  spoiler.  All  these  had  been  in  the 
vision.  It  was  all  over  now.  He  had  seen  an  image,  it 
had  vanished,  and  he  was  in  the  desert  alone. 

A  band  was  playing  "The  Banks  o'  Garry  Owen,"  and 
the  tramp  of  marching  men  came  to  his  ears.  The  crowd 
surged  round  him,  pushed  him,  forced  him  forward,  car- 
ried him  on,  till  the  marching  men  came  near,  were  along- 
side of  him — a  battalion  of  Volunteers,  going  to  the  war  to 
see  "Kruger's  farmers  bite  the  dust!" — a  six  months'  ex- 
cursion, as  they  thought.  Then  the  crowd,  as  it  cheered, 
jostled  him  against  the  wall  of  the  shops,  and  presently  he 
found  himself  forced  down  Buckingham  Street.  It  was 
where  he  wished  to  go  in  order  to  reach  Adrian  Fellowes' 
apartments.  He  did  not  notice,  as  he  was  practically 
thrown  into  the  street,  that  Krool  was  almost  beside  him. 

The  street  was  not  well  lighted,  and  he  looked  neither 
to  right  nor  left.  He  was  thinking  hard  of  what  he  would 
say  to  Adrian  Fellowes,  if,  and  when,  he  saw  him. 

But  not  far  behind  him  was  a  figure  that  stole  along  in 
the  darker  shadows  of  the  houses,  keeping  at  some  distance. 
The  same  figure  followed  him  furtively  till  he  came  into 
that  part  of  the  Embankment  where  Adrian  Fellowes' 
chambers  were;  then  it  fell  behind  a  little,  for  here  the 
lights  were  brighter.  It  hung  in  the  shadow  of  a  door- 
262 


FELLOWES    GOES   A   JOURNEY 

way  and  watched  him  as  he  approached  the  door  of  the 
big  building  where  Adrian  Fellowes  lived. 

Presently,  as  he  came  nearer,  Stafford  saw  a  hansom 
standing  before  the  door.  Something  made  him  pause 
for  a  moment,  and  when,  in  the  pause,  the  figure  of  a 
woman  emerged  from  the  entrance  and  hastily  got  into 
the  hansom,  he  drew  back  into  the  darkness  of  a  doorway, 
as  the  man  did  who  was  now  shadowing  him;  and  he 
waited  till  it  turned  round  and  rolled  swiftly  away.  Then 
he  moved  forward  again.  When  not  far  from  the  en- 
trance, however,  another  cab — a  four-wheeler — discharged 
its  occupant  at  a  point  nearer  to  the  building  than  where 
he  waited.  It  was  a  woman.  She  paid  the  cabman, 
who  touched  his  hat  with  quick  and  grateful  emphasis, 
and,  wheeling  his  old  crock  round,  clattered  away.  The 
woman  glanced  along  the  empty  street  swiftly,  and  then 
hurried  to  the  doorway  which  opened  to  Adrian  Fellowes' 
chambers. 

Instantly  Stafford  recognized  her.  It  was  Jasmine, 
dressed  in  black  and  heavily  veiled.  He  could  not  mis- 
take the  figure — there  was  none  other  like  it;  or  the  turn 
of  her  head — there  was  only  one  such  head  in  all  England. 
She  entered  the  building  quickly. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait  until  she  came  out 
again.  No  passion  stirred  in  him,  no  jealousy,  no  anger. 
It  was  all  dead.  He  knew  why  she  had  come;  or  he 
thought  he  knew.  She  would  tell  the  man  who  had  said 
no  word  in  defense  of  her,  done  nothing  to  protect  her, 
who  let  the  worst  be  believed,  without  one  protest  of  her 
innocence,  what  she  thought  of  him.  She  was  foolish  to 
go  to  him,  but  women  do  mad  things,  and  they  must  not 
be  expected  to  do  the  obviously  sensible  thing  when  the 
crisis  of  their  lives  has  come.  Stafford  understood  it  all. 

One  thing  he  was  certain  Jasmine  did  not  know — the 

intimacy  between  Fellowes  and  Al'mah.     He  himself  had 

been  tempted  to  speak  of  it  in  their  terrible  interview  that 

morning ;  but  he  had  refrained.    The  ignominy,  the  shame, 

18  263 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

the  humiliation  of  that  would  have  been  beyond  her  en- 
durance. He  understood ;  but  he  shrank  at  the  thought 
of  the  nature  of  the  interview  which  she  must  have,  at 
the  thought  of  the  meeting  at  all. 

He  would  have  some  time  to  wait,  no  doubt,  and  he 
made  himself  easy  in  the  doorway,  where  his  glance  could 
command  the  entrance  she  had  used.  He  mechanically 
took  out  a  cigar-case,  but  after  looking  at  the  cigars  for 
a  moment  put  them  away  again  with  a  sigh.  Smok- 
ing would  not  soothe  him.  He  had  passed  beyond  the 
artificial. 

His  waiting  suddenly  ended.  It  seemed  hardly  three 
minutes  after  Jasmine's  entrance  when  she  appeared  in 
the  doorway  again,  and,  after  a  hasty  glance  up  and 
down  the  street,  sped  away  as  swiftly  as  she  could,  and, 
at  the  corner,  turned  up  sharply  towards  the  Strand. 
Her  movements  had  been  agitated,  and,  as  she  hurried 
on,  she  thrust  her  head  down  into  her  muff  as  a  woman 
would  who  faced  a  blinding  rain. 

The  interview  had  been  indeed  short.  Perhaps  Fel- 
lowes  had  already  gone  abroad.  He  would  soon  find  out. 

He  mounted  the  deserted  staircase  quickly  and  knocked 
at  Fellowes'  door.  There  was  no  reply.  There  was  a 
light,  however,  and  he  knocked  again.  Still  there  was  no 
answer.  He  tried  the  handle  of  the  door.  It  turned, 
the  door  gave,  and  he  entered.  There  was  no  sound. 
He  knocked  at  an  inner  door.  There  was  no  reply,  yet  a 
light  showed  in  the  room.  He  turned  the  handle.  En- 
tering the  room,  he  stood  still  and  looked  round.  It 
seemed  empty,  but  there  were  signs  of  packing,  of  things 
gathered  together  hastily. 

Then,  with  a  strange  sudden  sense  of  a  presence  in  the 
room,  he  looked  round  again.  There  in  a  far  corner  of 
the  large  room  was  a  couch,  and  on  it  lay  a  figure — Adrian 
Fellowes,  straight  and  still — and  sleeping. 

Stafford  went  over.     "Fellowes,"  he  said,  sharply. 

There  was  no  reply.  He  leaned  over  and  touched  a 
264 


FELLOWES    GOES    A    JOURNEY 

shoulder.  "  Fellowes !"  he  exclaimed  again,  but  something 
in  the  touch  made  him  look  closely  at  the  face  half  turned 
to  the  wall.  Then  he  knew. 

Adrian  Fellowes  was  dead. 

Horror  came  upon  Stafford,  but  no  cry  escaped  him. 
He  stooped  once  more  and  closely  looked  at  the  body, 
but  without  touching  it.  There  was  no  sign  of  violence, 
no  blood,  no  disfigurement,  no  distortion,  only  a  look  of 
sleep — a  pale,  motionless  sleep. 

But  the  body  was  warm  yet.  He  realized  that  as  his 
hand  had  touched  the  shoulder.  The  man  could  only 
have  been  dead  a  little  while. 

Only  a  little  while :  and  in  that  little  while  Jasmine  had 
left  the  house  with  agitated  footsteps. 

"He  did  not  die  by  his  own  hand,"  Stafford  said  aloud. 

He  rang  the  bell  loudly.  No  one  answered.  He  rang 
and  rang  again,  and  then  a  lazy  porter  came. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
"MORE  WAS  LOST  AT  MOHACKSFIELD" 

EASTMINSTER  HOUSE  was  ablaze.  A  large  dinner 
had  been  fixed  for  this  October  evening,  and  only  just 
before  half -past  eight  Jasmine  entered  the  drawing-room 
to  receive  her  guests.  She  had  completely  forgotten  the 
dinner  till  very  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  she  observed 
preparations  for  which  she  had  given  instructions  the  day 
before.  She  was  about  to  leave  the  house  upon  the  mission 
which  had  drawn  her  footsteps  in  the  same  direction  as 
those  of  Ian  Stafford,  when  the  butler  came  to  her  for 
information  upon  some  details.  These  she  gave  with  an 
instant  decision  which  was  part  of  her  equipment,  and 
then,  when  the  butler  had  gone,  she  left  the  house  on  foot 
to  take  a  cab  at  the  corner  of  Piccadilly. 

When  she  returned  home,  the  tables  in  the  dining-room 
were  decorated,  the  great  rooms  were  already  lighted,  and 
the  red  carpet  was  being  laid  down  at  the  door.  The 
footmen  looked  up  with  surprise  as  she  came  up  the  steps, 
and  their  eyes  followed  her  as  she  ascended  the  staircase 
with  marked  deliberation. 

"Well,  that's  style  for  you,"  said  the  first  footman. 
"Takin'  an  airin'  on  shanks'  hosses." 

"And  a  quarter  of  an  hour  left  to  put  on  the  tirara," 
sniggered  the  second  footman.  "The  lot  is  asked  for 
eight-thirty." 

"Swells,  the  bunch,  windin'  up  with  the  brother  of 
an  Emperor — 'struth!" 

"I'll  bet  the  Emperor's  brother  ain't  above  takin'  a  tip 
about  shares  on  the  Rand,  me  boy." 
266 


"LOST   AT    MOHACKSFIELD" 

"I'll  bet  none  of  'em  ain't.  That's  why  they  come — 
not  forgetting  th'  grub  and  the  fizz." 

"What  price  a  title  for  the  Byng  Baas  one  of  these 
days!  They  like  tips  down  there  where  the  old  Markis 
rumbles  through  his  beard — and  a  lot  of  hands  to  be 
greased.  And  grease  it  costs  a  lot,  political  grease  does. 
But  what  price  a  title — Sir  Rudyard  Byng,  Bart.,  wot 
oh!" 

"Try  another  shelf  higher  up,  and  it's  more  like  it. 
Wot  a  head  for  a  coronet  'ers!  W'y — " 

But  the  voice  of  the  butler  recalled  them  from  the 
fields  of  imagination,  and  they  went  with  lordly  leisure 
upon  the  business  of  the  household. 

Socially  this  was  to  be  the  day  of  Jasmine's  greatest 
triumph.  One  of  the  British  royal  family  was,  with  the 
member  of  another  great  reigning  family,  honouring  her 
table — though  the  ladies  of  neither  were  to  be  present; 
and  this  had  been  a  drop  of  chagrin  in  her  cup.  She  had 
been  unaware  of  the  gossip  there  had  been  of  late, — though 
it  was  unlikely  the  great  ladies  would  have  known  of  it — 
and  she  would  have  been  slow  to  believe  what  Ian  had 
told  her  this  day,  that  men  had  talked  lightly  of  her  at 
De  Lancy  Scovel's  house.  Her  eyes  had  been  shut;  her 
wilful  nature  had  not  been  sensitive  to  the  quality  of  the 
social  air  about  her.  People  came — almost  "everybody" 
came — to  her  house,  and  would  come,  of  course,  until  there 
was  some  open  scandal;  until  her  husband  intervened. 
Yet  everybody  did  not  come.  The  royal  princesses  had 
not  found  it  convenient  to  come ;  and  this  may  have  meant 
nothing,  or  very  much  indeed.  To  Jasmine,  however,  as 
she  hastily  robed  herself  for  dinner,  her  mind  working 
with  lightning  swiftness,  it  did  not  matter  at  all;  if  all 
the  kings  and  queens  of  all  the  world  had  promised  to 
come  and  had  not  come,  it  would  have  meant  nothing  to 
her  this  night  of  nights. 

In  her  eyes  there  was  the  look  of  one  who  has  seen  some 
horrible  thing,  though  she  gave  her  prders  with  coherence 
267 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

and  decision  as  usual,  and  with  great  deftness  she  assisted 
her  maid  in  the  hasty  toilette.  Her  face  was  very  pale, 
save  for  one  or  two  hectic  spots  which  took  the  place 
of  the  nectarine  bloom  so  seldom  absent  from  her  cheeks, 
and  in  its  place  was  a  new,  shining,  strange  look  like  a 
most  delicate  film — the  transfiguring  kind  of  look  which 
great  joy  or  great  pain  gives. 

Coming  up  the  staircase  from  the  street,  she  had 
seen  Krool  enter  her  husband's  room  more  hastily  than 
usual,  and  had  heard  him  greeted  sharply — something  that 
sounded  strange  to  her  ears,  for  Rudyard  was  uniformly 
kind  to  Krool.  Never  had  Rudyard's  voice  sounded  as 
it  did  now.  Of  course  it  was  her  imagination,  but  it  was 
like  a  voice  which  came  from  some  desolate  place,  distant, 
arid  and  alien.  That  was  not  the  voice  in  which  he  had 
wooed  her  on  the  day  when  they  heard  of  Jameson's  Raid. 
That  was  not  the  voice  which  had  spoken  to  her  in  broken 
tones  of  love  on  the  day  Ian  first  dined  with  her  after 
her  marriage — that  fateful,  desperate  day.  This  was  a 
voice  which  had  a  cheerless,  fretful  note,  a  savage  some- 
thing in  it.  Presently  they  two  would  meet,  and  she 
knew  how  it  would  be — an  outward  semblance,  a  super- 
ficial amenity  and  confidence  before  their  guests;  the 
smile  of  intimacy,  when  there  was  no  intimacy,  and  never, 
never,  could  be  again;  only 'acting,  only  make-believe, 
only  the  artifice  of  deceit. 

Yet  when  she  was  dressed — in  pure  white,  with  only  a 
string  of  pearls,  the  smallest  she  had,  round  her  neck — 
she  was  like  that  white  flower  which  had  been  placed  on 
her  pillow  last  night. 

Turning  to  leave  the  bedroom  she  caught  sight  of 
her  face  and  figure  again  in  the  big  mirror,  and  she 
seemed  to  herself  like  some  other  woman.  There  was 
that  strange,  distant  look  of  agony  in  her  eyes,  that  trans- 
figuring look  in  the  face;  there  was  the  figure  somehow 
gone  slimmer  in  these  few  hours;  and  there  was  a  frail 
appearance  which  did  not  belong  to  her. 
268 


"LOST    AT   MOHACKSFIELD" 

As  she  was  about  to  leave  the  room  to  descend  the 
stairs,  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  A  bunch  of  white 
violets  was  handed  in,  with  a  pencilled  note  in  Rudyard's 
handwriting. 

White  violets — white  violets! 

The  note  read,  "Wear  these  to-night,  Jasmine." 

White  violets — how  strange  that  he  should  send  them ! 
These  they  send  for  the  young,  the  innocent,  and  the  dead. 
Rudyard  had  sent  them  to  her — from  how  far  away !  He 
was  there  just  across  the  hallway,  and  yet  he  might  have 
been  in  Bolivia,  so  far  as  their  real  life  was  concerned. 

She  was  under  no  illusion.  This  day,  and  perhaps  a 
few,  a  very  few  others,  must  be  lived  under  the  same  roof, 
in  order  that  they  could  separate  without  scandal;  but 
things  could  never  go  on  as  in  the  past.  She  had  realized 
that  the  night  before,  when  still  that  chance  of  which  she 
had  spoken  to  Stafford  was  hers ;  when  she  had  wound  the 
coil  of  her  wonderful  hair  round  her  throat,  and  had  im- 
agined that  self-destruction  which  has  tempted  so  many 
of  more  spiritual  make  than  herself.  It  was  melodramatic, 
emotional,  theatrical,  maybe;  but  the  emotional,  the 
theatrical,  the  egotistic  mortal  has  his  or  her  tragedy, 
which  is  just  as  real  as  that  which  comes  to  those  of 
more  spiritual  vein,  just  as  real  as  that  which  comes 
to  the  more  classical  victim  of  fate.  Jasmine  had  the 
deep  defects  of  her  qualities.  Her  suffering  was  not  the 
less  acute  because  it  found  its  way  out  with  impassioned 
demonstration. 

There  was,  however,  no  melodrama  in  the  quiet  trem- 
bling with  which  she  took  the  white  violets,  the  symbol  of 
love  and  death.  She  was  sure  that  Rudyard  was  not  aware 
of  their  significance  and  meaning,  but  that  did  not  modify 
the  effect  upon  her.  Her  trouble  just  now  was  too  deep 
for  tears,  too  bitter  for  words,  too  terrible  for  aught  save 
numb  endurance.  Nothing  seemed  to  matter  in  a  sense, 
and  yet  the  little  routine  of  life  meant  so  much  in  its 
iron  insistence.  The  habits  of  convention  are  so  powerful 
269 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

that  life's  great  issues  are  often  obscured  by  them.  Going 
to  her  final  doom  a  woman  would  stop  to  give  the  last 
careful  touch  to  her  hair — the  mechanical  obedience  to 
long  habit.  It  is  not  vanity,  not  littleness,  but  habit; 
never  shown  with  subtler  irony  than  in  the  case  of  Ma- 
dame de  Langrois,  who,  pacing  the  path  to  her  execution 
at  Lille,  stooped,  picked  up  a  pin  from  the  ground,  and 
fastened  it  in  her  gown — the  tyranny  of  habit. 

Outside  her  own  room  Jasmine  paused  for  a  moment 
and  looked  at  the  closed  door  of  Rudyard's  room.  Only 
a  step — and  yet  she  was  kept  apart  from  him  by  a  shadow 
so  black,  so  overwhelming,  that  she  could  not  penetrate 
it.  It  smothered  her  sight.  No,  no,  that  little  step 
could  not  be  taken;  there  was  a  gulf  between  them  which 
could  not  be  bridged. 

There  was  nothing  to  say  to  Rudyard  except  what 
could  be  said  upon  the  surface,  before  all  the  world,  as  it 
were;  things  which  must  be  said  through  an  atmosphere 
of  artificial  sounds,  which  would  give  no  response  to  the 
agonized  cries  of  the  sentient  soul.  She  could  make  be- 
lieve before  the  world,  but  not  alone  with  Rudyard.  She 
shrank  within  herself  at  the  idea  of  being  alone  with  him. 

As  she  went  down-stairs  a  scene  in  a  room  on  the 
Thames  Embankment,  from  which  she  had  come  a  half- 
hour  ago,  passed  before  her  vision.  It  was  as  though  it 
had  been  imprinted  on  the  film  of  her  eye  and  must  stay 
there  forever. 

When  would  the  world  know  that  Adrian  Fellowes  lay 
dead  in  the  room  on  the  Embankment?  And  when  they 
knew  it,  what  would  they  say?  They  would  ask  how  he 
died — the  world  would  ask  how  he  died.  The  Law  would 
ask  how  he  died. 

How  had  he  died?  Who  killed"  him?  Or  did  he  die 
by  his  own  hand?  Had  Adrian  Fellowes,  the  rank  ma- 
terialist, the  bon  viveur,  the  man-luxury,  the  courage  to 
kill  himself  by  his  own  hand?  If  not,  who  killed  him? 
She  shuddered.  They  might  say  that  £he  killed  him. 
270 


"LOST    AT    MOHACKSFIELD" 

She  had  seen  no  one  on  the  staircase  as  she  had  gone  up, 
but  she  had  dimly  seen  another  figure  outside  in  the 
terrace  as  she  came  out;  and  there  was  the  cabman  who 
drove  her  to  the  place.  That  was  all. 

Now,  entering  the  great  drawing-room  of  her  own  house 
she  shuddered  as  though  from  an  icy  chill.  The  scene 
there  on  the  Embankment — her  own  bitter  anger,  her 
frozen  hatred;  then  the  dead  man  with  his  face  turned  to 
the  wall ;  the  stillness,  the  clock  ticking,  her  own  cold  voice 
speaking  to  him,  calling;  then  the  terrified  scrutiny,  the 
touch  of  the  wrist,  the  realization,  the  moment's  awful 
horror,  the  silence  which  grew  more  profound,  the  sud- 
den paralysis  of  body  and  will.  .  .  .  And  then — music, 
strange,  soft,  mysterious  music  coming  from  somewhere 
inside  the  room,  music  familiar  and  yet  unnatural,  a  song 
she  had  heard  once  before,  a  pathetic  folk-song  of  east- 
ern Europe,  "More  Was  Lost  at  Mohacksfield."  It  was 
a  tale  of  love  and  loss  and  tragedy  and  despair. 

Startled  and  overcome,  she  had  swayed,  and  would  have 
fallen,  but  that  with  an  effort  of  the  will  she  had  caught 
at  the  table  and  saved  herself.  With  the  music  still 
creeping  in  unutterable  melancholy  through  the  room, 
she  had  fled,  closing  the  door  behind  her  very  softly  as 
though  not  to  disturb  the  sleeper.  It  had  followed  her 
down  the  staircase  and  into  the  street,  the  weird,  un- 
natural music. 

It  was  only  when  she  had  entered  a  cab  in  the  Strand 
that  she  realized  exactly  what  the  music  was.  She  re- 
membered that  Fellowes  had  bought  a  music-box  which 
could  be  timed  to  play  at  will — even  days  ahead,  and  he 
had  evidently  set  the  box  to  play  at  this  hour.  It  did  so, 
a  strange,  grim  commentary  on  the  stark  thing  lying  on 
the  couch,  nerveless  as  though  it  had  been  dead  a  thou- 
sand years.  It  had  ceased  to  play  before  Stafford  entered 
the  room,  but,  strangely  enough,  it  began  again  as  he  said 
over  the  dead  body,  "He  did  not  die  by  his  own  hand." 

Standing  before  the  fireplace  in  the  drawing-room, 
271 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

awaiting  the  first  guest,  Jasmine  said  to  herself:  "No,  no, 
he  had  not  the  courage  to  kill  himself." 

Some  one  had  killed  him.  Who  was  it?  Who  killed 
him — Rudyard — Ian — who?  But  how?  There  was  no 
sign  of  violence.  That  much  she  had  seen.  He  lay  like 
one  asleep.  Who  was  it  killed  him? 

"Lady  Tynemouth." 

Back  to  the  world  from  purgatory  again.  The  butler's 
voice  broke  the  spell,  and  Lady  Tynemouth  took  her  friend 
in  her  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"So  handsome  you  look,  my  darling — and  all  in  white. 
White  violets,  too.  Dear,  dear,  how  sweet,  and  oh,  how 
triste!  But  I  suppose  it's  chic.  Certainly,  it  is  stunning. 
And  so  simple.  Just  the  weeny,  teeny  string  of  pearls, 
like  a  young  under-secretary's  wife,  to  show  what  she 
might  do  if  she  had  a  fair  chance.  Oh,  you  clever,  won- 
derful Jasmine!" 

"My  dressmaker  says  I  have  no  real  taste  in  colours, 
so  I  compromised,"  was  Jasmine's  reply,  with  a  really 
good  imitation  of  a  smile. 

As  she  babbled  on,  Lady  Tynemouth  had  been  eyeing 
her  friend  with  swift  inquiry,  for  she  had  never  seen  Jas- 
mine look  as  she  did  to-night,  so  ethereal,  so  tragically 
ethereal,  with  dark  lines  under  the  eyes,  the  curious 
transparency  of  the  skin,  and  the  feverish  brightness  and 
far-awayness  of  the  look.  She  was  about  to  say  something 
in  comment,  but  other  guests  entered,  and  it  was  impos- 
sible. She  watched,  however,  from  a  little  distance,  while 
talking  gaily  to  other  guests;  she  watched  at  the  dinner- 
table,  as  Jasmine,  seated  between  her  two  royalties,  talked 
with  gaiety,  with  pretty  irony,  with  respectful  badinage; 
and  no  one  could  be  so  daring  with  such  ceremonious  re- 
spect at  the  same  time  as  she.  Yet  through  it  all  Lady 
Tynemouth  saw  her  glance  many  times  with  a  strange, 
strained  inquiry  at  Rudyard,  seated  far  away  opposite 
her,  at  another  big,  round  table. 
272 


-LOST   AT    MOHACKSFIELD" 

"There's  something  wrong  here,"  Lady  Tynemouth 
said  to  herself,  and  wondered  why  Ian  Stafford  was  not 
present.  Mennaval  was  there,  eagerly  seeking  glances. 
These  Jasmine  gave  with  a  smiling  openness  and  apparent 
good-fellowship,  which  were  not  in  the  least  compromising. 
Lady  Tynemouth  saw  Mennaval' s  vain  efforts,  and  laughed 
to  herself,  and  presently  she  even  laughed  with  her  neigh- 
bour about  them. 

"What  an  infant  it  is!"  she  said  to  her  table  compan- 
ion. "Jasmine  Byng  doesn't  care  a  snap  of  her  finger 
about  Mennaval." 

"Does  she  care  a  snap  for  anybody ?"  asked  the  other. 
Then  he  added,  with  a  kind  of  query  in  the  question 
apart  from  the  question  itself:  "Where  is  the  great 
man — where's  Stafford  to-night?" 

' '  Counting  his  winnings,  I  suppose. ' '  Lady  Tynemouth's 
face  grew  soft.  "He  has  done  great  things  for  so  young 
a  man.  What  a  distance  he  has  gone  since  he  pulled  me 
and  my  red  umbrella  back  from  the  Zambesi  Falls!" 

Then  proceeded  a  gay  conversation,  in  which  Lady 
Tynemouth  was  quite  happy.  When  she  could  talk  of 
Ian  Stafford  she  was  really  enjoying  herself.  In  her  eyes 
he  was  the  perfect  man,  whom  other  women  tried  to  spoil, 
and  whom,  she  flattered  herself,  she  kept  sound  and  un- 
spoiled by  her  frank  platonic  affection. 

"Our  host  seems  a  bit  abstracted  to-night,"  said  her 
table  companion  after  a  long  discussion  about  what  Staf- 
ford had  done  and  what  he  still  might  do. 

"The  war — it  means  so  much  to  him,"  said  Lady  Tyne- 
mouth. Yet  she  had  seen  the  note  of  abstraction  too, 
and  it  had  made  her  wonder  what  was  happening  in  this 
household. 

The  other  demurred. 

"But  I  imagine  he  has  been  prepared  for  the  war  for 
some  time.  He  didn't  seem  excessively  worried  about  it 
before  dinner,  yet  he  seemed  upset  too,  so  pale  and  anxious- 
looking." 

273 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"  I'll  make  her  talk,  make  her  tell  me  what  it  is,  if  there 
is  anything,"  said  Lady  Tynemouth  to  herself.  "I'll 
ask  myself  to  stay  with  her  for  a  couple  of  days." 

Superficial  as  Lady  Tynemouth  seemed  to  many,  she 
had  real  sincerity,  and  she  was  a  friend  in  need  to  her 
friends.  She  loved  Jasmine  as  much  as  she  could  love 
any  woman,  and  she  said  now,  as  she  looked  at  Jasmine's 
face,  so  alert,  so  full  of  raillery,  yet  with  such  an  under- 
tone of  misery: 

"She  looks  as  if  she  needed  a  friend." 

After  dinner  she  contrived  to  get  her  arm  through  that 
of  her  hostess,  and  gave  it  an  endearing  pressure.  "  May 
I  come  to  you  for  a  few  days,  Jasmine?"  she  asked. 

"I  was  going  to  ask  if  you  would  have  me,"  answered 
Jasmine,  with  a  queer  little  smile.  "Rudyard  will  be 
up  to  his  ears  for  a  few  days,  and  that's  a  chance  for  you 
and  me  to  do  some  shopping,  and  some  other  things  to- 
gether, isn't  it?" 

She  was  thinking  of  appearances,  of  the  best  way  to 
separate  from  Rudyard  for  a  little  while,  till  the  longer 
separation  could  be  arranged  without  scandal.  Ian 
Stafford  had  said  that  things  could  go  on  in  this  house 
as  before,  that  Rudyard  would  never  hint  to  her  what  he 
knew,  or  rather  what  the  letter  had  told  him  or  left  un- 
told: but  that  was  impossible.  Whatever  Rudyard  was 
willing  to  do,  there  was  that  which  she  could  not  do. 
Twenty-four  hours  had  accomplished  a  complete  revo- 
lution in  her  attitude  towards  life  and  in  her  sense  of 
things.  Just  for  these  immediate  days  to  come,  when 
the  tragedy  of  Fellowes'  death  would  be  made  a  sen- 
sation of  the  hour,  there  must  be  temporary  expedi- 
ents; and  Lady  Tynemouth  had  suggested  one  which 
had  its  great  advantages. 

She  could  not  bear  to  remain  in  Rudyard's  house;  and 
in  his  heart  of  hearts  Rudyard  would  wish  the  same,  even 
if  he  believed  her  innocent;  but  if  she  must  stay  for  ap- 
pearance' sake,  then  it  would  be  good  to  have  Lady  Tyne- 
274 


"LOST   AT   MOHACKSFIELD" 

mouth  with  her.  Rudyard  would  be  grateful  for  time  to 
get  his  balance  again.  This  bunch  of  violets  was  the 
impulse  of  a  big,  magnanimous  nature;  but  it  would  be 
followed  by  the  inevitable  reaction,  which  would  be  the 
real  test  and  trial. 

Love  and  forgiveness — what  had  she  to  do  with  either! 
She  did  not  wish  forgiveness  because  of  Adrian  Fellowes. 
No  heart  had  been  involved  in  that  episode.  It  had  in 
one  sense  meant  nothing  to  her.  She  loved  another  man, 
and  she  did  not  wish  forgiveness  of  him  either.  No,  no, 
the  whole  situation  was  impossible.  She  could  not  stay 
here.  For  his  own  sake  Rudyard  would  not,  ought  not, 
to  wish  her  to  stay.  What  might  not  the  next  few  days 
bring  forth? 

Who  had  killed  Adrian  Fellowes?  He  was  not  man 
enough  to  take  his  own  life — who  had  killed  him?  Was 
it  her  husband,  after  all?  He  had  said  to  Ian  Stafford 
that  he  would  do  nothing,  but,  with  the  maggot  of  re- 
venge and  jealousy  in  their  brains,  men  could  not  be 
trusted  from  one  moment  to  another. 

The  white  violets?  Even  they  might  be  only  the  im- 
pulse of  the  moment,  one  of  those  acts  of  madness  of 
jealous  and  revengeful  people.  Men  had  kissed  their 
wives  and  then  killed  them — fondled  them,  and  then 
strangled  them.  Rudyard  might  have  made  up  his  mind 
since  morning  to  kill  Fellowes,  and  kill  herself,  also. 
Fellowes  was  gone,  and  now  might  come  her  turn.  White 
violets  were  the  flowers  of  death,  and  the  first  flowers 
he  had  ever  given  her  were  purple  violets,  the  flowers  of 
life  and  love. 

If  Rudyard  had  killed  Adrian  Fellowes,  there  would  be 
an  end  to  everything.  If  he  was  suspected,  and  if  the 
law  stretched  out  its  hand  of  steel  to  clutch  him — what 
an  ignominious  end  to  it  all ;  what  a  mean  finish  to  life, 
to  opportunity,  to  everything  worth  doing! 

And  she  would  have  been  the  cause  of  everything. 

The  thought  scorched  her  soul. 
275 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Yet  she  talked  on  gaily  to  her  guests  until  the  men 
returned  from  their  cigars;  as  though  Penalty  and  Neme- 
sis were  outside  even  the  range  of  her  imagination;  as 
though  she  could  not  hear  the  snap  of  the  handcuffs  on 
Rudyard's — or  lan's — wrists. 

Before  and  after  dinner  only  a  few  words  had  passed 
between  her  and  Rudyard,  and  that  was  with  people  round 
them.  It  was  as  though  they  spoke  through  some  neu- 
tralizing medium,  in  which  all  real  personal  relation  was 
lost.  Now  Rudyard  came  to  her,  however,  and  in  a 
matter-of-fact  voice  said:  "I  suppose  Al'mah  will  be 
here.  You  haven't  heard  to  the  contrary,  I  hope? 
These  great  singers  are  so  whimsical." 

There  was  no  time  for  Jasmine  to  answer,  for  through 
one  of  the  far  entrances  of  the  drawing-room  Al'mah 
entered.  Her  manner  was  composed — if  possible  more 
composed  than  usual,  and  she  looked  around  her  calmly. 
At  that  moment  a  servant  handed  Byng  a  letter.  It 
contained  only  a  few  words,  and  it  ran: 

"DEAR  BYNG, — Fellowes  is  gone.  I  found  him  dead  in  his 
rooms.  An  inquest  will  be  held  to-morrow.  There  are  no  signs 
of  violence;  neither  of  suicide  or  anything  else.  If  you  want 
me,  I  shall  be  at  my  rooms  after  ten  o'clock  to-night.  I  have 
got  all  his  papers.  "Yours  ever, 

"IAN  STAFFORD." 

Jasmine  watched  Rudyard  closely  as  he  read.  A 
strange  look  passed  over  his  face,  but  his  hand  was  steady 
as  he  put  the  note  in  his  pocket.  She  then  saw  him  look 
searchingly  at  Al'mah  as  he  went  forward  to  greet  her. 

On  the  instant  Rudyard  had  made  up  his  mind  what  to 
do.  It  was  clear  that  Al'mah  did  not  know  that  Fellowes 
was  dead,  or  she  would  not  be  here;  for  he  knew  of  their 
relations,  though  he  had  never  told  Jasmine.  Jasmine 
did  not  suspect  the  truth,  or  Al'mah  would  not  be  where 
she  was;  and  Fellowes  would  never  have  written  to  Jas- 
mine the  letter  for  which  he  had  paid  with  his  life. 
276 


"LOST    AT    MOHACKSFIELD" 

Al'mah  was  gently  appreciative  of  the  welcome  she 
received  from  both  Byng  and  Jasmine,  and  she  prepared 
to  sing. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  am  in  good  voice,"  she  said  to  Jasmine, 
presently.  Then  Rudyard  went,  giving  his  wife's  arm 
a  little  familiar  touch  as  he  passed,  and  said : 

"Remember,  we  must  have  some  patriotic  things  to- 
night. I'm  sure  Al'mah  will  feel  so,  too.  Something 
really  patriotic  and  stirring.  We  shall  need  it — yes, 
we  shall  need  cheering  very  badly  before  we've  done. 
We're  not  going  to  have  a  walk-over  in  South  Africa. 
Cheering  up  is  what  we  want,  and  we  must  have  it." 

Again  he  cast  a  queer,  inquiring  look  at  Al'mah,  to 
which  he  got  no  response,  and  to  himself  he  said,  grimly : 
"Well,  it's  better  she  should  not  know  it — here." 

His  mind  was  in  a  maze.  He  moved  as  in  a  dream. 
He  was  pale,  but  he  had  an  air  of  determination.  Once 
he  staggered  with  dizziness,  then  he  righted  himself  and 
smiled  at  some  one  near.  That  some  one  winked  at  his 
neighbour. 

"It's  true,  then,  what  we  hear  about  him,"  the  neigh- 
bour said,  and  suggestively  raised  fingers  to  his  mouth. 

Al'mah  sang  as  perhaps  she  had  seldom  sung.  There 
was  in  her  voice  an  abandon  and  tragic  intensity, 
a  wonderful  resonance  and  power,  which  captured  her 
hearers  as  they  had  never  been  captured  before.  First 
she  sang  a  love-song,  then  a  song  of  parting.  Afterwards 
came  a  lyric  of  country,  which  stirred  her  audience  deeply. 
It  was  a  challenge  to  every  patriot  to  play  his  part  for 
home  and  country.  It  was  an  appeal  to  the  spirit  of 
sacrifice;  it  was  an  inspiration  and  an  invocation.  Men's 
eyes  grew  moist. 

And  now  another,  a  final  song,  a  combination  of  all — 
of  love,  and  loss  and  parting  and  ruin,  and  war  and 
patriotism  and  destiny.  With  the  first  low  notes  of  it 
Jasmine  rose  slowly  from  her  seat,  like  one  in  a  dream, 
and  stood  staring  blindly  at  Al'mah.  The  great  voice 
277 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

swelled  out  in  a  passion  of  agony,  then  sank  away  into  a 
note  of  despair  that  gripped  the  heart. 

"But  more  was  lost  at  Mohacksfield — " 

Jasmine  had  stood  transfixed  while  the  first  words  were 
sung,  then,  as  the  last  line  was  reached,  staring  straight 
in  front  of  her,  as  though  she  saw  again  the  body  of  Adrian 
Fellowes  in  the  room  by  the  river,  she  gave  a  cry,  which 
sounded  half  laughter  and  half  torture,  and  fell  heavily 
on  the  polished  floor. 

Rudyard  ran  forward  and  lifted  her  in  his  arms.  Lady 
Tynemouth  was  beside  him  in  an  instant. 

"Yes,  that's  right — you  come,"  he  said  to  her,  and  he 
carried  the  limp  body  up-stairs,  the  white  violets  in  her 
dress  crushed  against  his  breast. 

"Poor  child — the  war,  of  course;  it  means  so  much  to 
them." 

Thus,  a  kindly  dowager,  as  she  followed  the  Royalties 
down-stairs. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

ONE   WHO    CAME    SEARCHING 

A  LADY  to  see  you,  sir." 
"A  lady?     What  should  we  be  doing  with  ladies 
here,  Gleg?" 

"I'm  sure  I  have  no  use  for  them,  sir,"  replied  Gleg, 
sourly.  He  was  in  no  good  humour.  That  very  morning 
he  had  been  told  that  his  master  was  going  to  South 
Africa,  and  that  he  would  not  be  needed  there,  but  that 
he  should  remain  in  England,  drawing  his  usual  pay. 
Instead  of  receiving  this  statement  with  gratitude,  Gleg 
had  sniffed  in  a  manner  which,  in  any  one  else,  would  have 
been  impertinence;  and  he  had  not  even  offered  thanks. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  she  wants?  She  looks  re- 
spectable?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  sir.     It's  her  ladyship,  sir." 

"It's  what  'ladyship,'  Gleg?" 

"Her  ladyship,  sir — Lady  Tynemouth." 

Stafford  looked  at  Gleg  meditatively  for  a  minute,  and 
then  said  quietly: 

"Let  me  see,  you  have  been  with  me  sixteen  years, 
Gleg.  You've  forgotten  me  often  enough  in  that  time, 
but  you've  never  forgotten  yourself  before.  Come  to 
me  to-morrow  at  noon.  ...  I  shall  allow  you  a  small 
pension.  Show  her  ladyship  in." 

Gone  waxen  in  face,  Gleg  crept  out  of  the  room. 

"  Seven-and-six  a  week,  I  suppose,"  he  said  to  himself 
as  he  went  down  the  stairs.  "Seven-and-six  for  a  bit 
of  bonhommy." 

With  great  consideration  he  brought  Lady  Tynemouth 
19  279 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

up,  and  shut  the  door  with  that  stillness  which  might  be 
reverence,  or  something  at  its  antipodes. 

Lady  Tynemouth  smiled  cheerily  at  Ian  as  she  held 
out  her  hand. 

"Gleg  disapproves  of  me  very  greatly.  He  thinks 
I  am  no  better  than  I  ought  to  be." 

"I  am  sure  you  are,"  answered  Stafford,  drily. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  know,  Ian,  who  does?  I've  put 
my  head  in  the  lion's  mouth  before,  just  like  this,  and  the 
lion  hasn't  snapped  once,"  she  rejoined,  settling  herself 
cozily  in  a  great,  green  leather-chair.  "Nobody  would 
believe  it;  but  there  it  is.  The  world  couldn't  think  that 
you  could  be  so  careless  of  your  opportunities,  or  that  I 
would  pay  for  the  candle  without  burning  it." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  think  they  would  believe  anything 
you  told  them." 

She  laughed  happily.  "Wouldn't  you  like  to  call  me 
Alice,  'same  as  ever,'  in  the  days  of  long  ago?  It  would 
make  me  feel  at  home  after  Gleg's  icy  welcome." 

He  smiled,  looked  down  at  her  with  admiration,  and 
quoted  some  lines  of  Swinburne,  alive  with  cynicism: 

"And  the  worst  and  the  best  of  this  is, 

That  neither  is  most  to  blame, 
If  she  has  forgotten  my  kisses, 
And  I  have  forgotten  her  name." 

Lady  Tynemouth  made  a  plaintive  gesture.  "  I  should 
probably  be  able  to  endure  the  bleak  present,  if  there  had 
been  any  kisses  in  the  sunny  past,"  she  rejoined,  with 
mock  pathos.  "That's  the  worst  of  our  friendship,  Ian. 
I'm  quite  sure  the  world  thinks  I'm  one  of  your  spent 
flames,  and  there  never  was  any  fire,  not  so  big  as  the 
point  of  a  needle,  was  there?  It's  that  which  hurts  so 
now,  little  Ian  Stafford — not  so  much  fire  as  would  burn 
on  the  point  of  a  needle." 

"'On  the  point  of  a  needle,'"  Ian  repeated,  half- 
abstractedly.  He  went  over  to  his  writing-desk,  and, 
280 


ONE    WHO    CAME    SEARCHING 

opening  a  blotter,  regarded  it  meditatively  for  an  instant, 
As  he  did  so  she  tapped  the  floor  impatiently  with  her 
umbrella,  and  looked  at  him  curiously,  but  with  a  little 
quirk  of  humour  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"The  point  of  a  needle  might  carry  enough  fire  to  burn 
up  a  good  deal,"  he  said,  reflectively.  Then  he  added, 
slowly:  "Do  you  remember  Mr.  Mappin  and  his  poisoned 
needle  at  Glencader?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  That  was  a  day  of  tragedy,  when  you 
and  Rudyard  Byng  won  a  hundred  Royal  Humane  Society 
medals,  and  we  all  felt  like  martyrs  and  heroes.  I  had  the 
most  creepy  dreams  afterwards.  One  night  it  was  awful. 
I  was  being  tortured  with  Mr.  Mappin's  needle  horribly  by 
— guess  whom?  By  that  half-caste  Krool,  and  I  waked  up 
with  a  little  scream,  to  find  Tynie  busy  pinching  me.  I 
had  been  making  such  a  wurra-wurra,  as  he  called  it." 

"Well,  it  is  a  startling  idea  that  there's  poison  power- 
ful enough  to  make  a  needle-point  dipped  in  it  deadly." 

"I  don't  believe  it  a  bit,  but — " 

Pausing,  she  flicked  a  speck  of  fluff  from  her  black 
dress — she  was  all  in  black,  with  only  a  stole  of  pure  white 
about  her  shoulders.  "But  tell  me,"  she  added,  present- 
ly— "for  it's  one  of  the  reasons  why  I'm  here  now — what 
happened  at  the  inquest  to-day?  The  evening  papers 
are  not  out,  and  you  were  there,  of  course,  and  gave  evi- 
dence, I  suppose.  Was  it  very  trying?  I'm  sure  it  was, 
for  I've  never  seen  you  look  so  pale.  You  are  positively 
haggard,  Ian.  You  don't  mind  that  from  an  old  friend, 
do  you?  You  look  terribly  ill,  just  when  you  should  look 
so  well." 

' '  Why  should  I  look  so  well  ? ' '  He  gazed  at  her  steadily. 
Had  she  any  glimmering  of  the  real  situation?  She  was 
staying  now  in  Byng's  house,  and  two  days  had  gone  since 
the  world  had  gone  wrong;  since  Jasmine  had  sunk  to  the 
floor  unconscious  as  Al'mah  sang,  "More  was  lost  at 
Mohacks field" 

"Why  should  you  look  so  well?  Because  you  are  the 
281 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

coming  man,  they  say.  It  makes  me  so  proud  to  be 
your  friend — even  your  neglected,  if  not  quite  discarded, 
friend.  Every  one  says  you  have  done  such  splendid  work 
for  England,  and  that  now  you  can  have  anything  you 
want.  The  ball  is  at  your  feet.  Dear  man,  you  ought 
to  look  like  a  morning-glory,  and  not  as  you  do.  Tell 
me,  Ian,  are  you  ill,  or  is  it  only  the  reaction  after  all 
you've  done?" 

"No  doubt  it's  the  reaction,"  he  replied. 

"I  know  you  didn't  like  Adrian  Fellowes  much,"  she 
remarked,  watching  him  closely.  "He  behaved  shocking- 
ly at  the  Glencader  Mine  affair — shockingly.  Tynie  was 
for  pitching  him  out  of  the  house,  and  taking  the  conse- 
quences; but,  all  the  same,  a  sudden  death  like  that  all 
alone  must  have  been  dreadful.  Please  tell  me,  what  was 
the  verdict?" 

"Heart  failure  was  the  verdict;  with  regret  for  a 
promising  life  cut  short,  and  sympathy  with  the  rela- 
tives." 

"I  never  heard  that  he  had  heart  trouble,"  was  the 
meditative  response.  "But — well,  of  course,  it  was  heart 
failure.  When  the  heart  stops  beating,  there's  heart 
failure.  What  a  silly  verdict!" 

"It  sounded  rather  worse  than  silly,"  was  lan's  com- 
ment. 

"  Did — did  they  cut  him  up,  to  see  if  he'd  taken  morphia, 
or  an  overdose  of  laudanum  or  veronal  or  something? 
I  had  a  friend  who  died  of  taking  quantities  of  veronal 
while  you  were  abroad  so  long — a  South  American,  she 
was." 

He  nodded.  "It  was  all  quite  in  order.  There  were 
no  signs  of  poison,  they  said,  but  the  heart  had  had  a 
shock  of  some  kind.  There  had  been  what  they  called 
lesion,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  and  not  sufficient 
strength  for  recovery." 

"I  suppose  Mr.  Mappin  wasn't  present?"  she  asked, 
curiously.  "I  know  it  is  silly  in  a  way,  but  don't  you 
282 


ONE    WHO    CAME    SEARCHING 

remember  how  interested  Mr.  Fellowes  was  in  that 
needle?  Was  Mr.  Mappin  there?" 

"There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  be  there." 

"What  witnesses  were  called?" 

"Myself  and  the  porter  of  Fellowes'  apartments,  his 
banker,  his  doctor — " 

"And  Al'mah?"  she  asked,  obliquely. 

He  did  not  reply  at  once,  but  regarded  her  inquiringly. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  to  speak  about  Al'mah,"  she 
continued.  "I  saw  something  queer  at  Glencader. 
Then  I  asked  Tynie,  and  he  told  me  that — well,  all  about 
her  and  Adrian  Fellowes.  Was  Al'mah  there?  Did  she 
give  evidence?" 

"She  was  there  to  be  called,  if  necessary,"  he  responded, 
"but  the  coroner  was  very  good  about  it.  After  the 
autopsy  the  authorities  said  evidence  was  unnecessary, 
and — " 

"You  arranged  that,  probably?" 

"Yes;  it  was  not  difficult.  They  were  so  stupid — and 
so  kind." 

She  smoothed  out  the  folds  of  her  dress  reflectively, 
then  got  up  as  if  with  sudden  determination,  and  came 
near  to  him.  Her  face  was  pale  now,  and  her  eyes  were 
greatly  troubled. 

"Ian,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "I  don't  believe  that 
Adrian  Fellowes  died  a  natural  death,  and  I  don't  believe 
that  he  killed  himself.  He  would  not  have  that  kind  of 
courage,  even  in  insanity.  He  could  never  go  insane. 
He  could  never  care  enough  about  anything  to  do  so. 
He — did — not — kill — himself.  There,  I  am  sure  of  it. 
And  he  did  not  die  a  natural  death,  either." 

"Who  killed  him?"  Ian  asked,  his  face  becoming  more 
drawn,  but  his  eyes  remaining  steady  and  quiet. 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  eyes  for  a  moment.  "Oh,  it 
all  seems  so  horrible!  I've  tried  to  shake  it  off,  and  not 
to  think  my  thoughts,  and  I  came  to  you  to  get  fresh  con- 
fidence; but  as  soon  as  I  saw  your  face  I  knew  I  couldn't 
283 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

have  it.  I  know  you  are  upset  too,  perhaps  not  by  the 
same  thoughts,  but  through  the  same  people." 

"Tell  me  all  you  think  or  know.  Be  quite  frank,"  he 
said,  heavily.  "I  will  tell  you  why  later.  It  is  essential 
that  you  should  be  wholly  frank  with  me." 

"As  I  have  always  been.  I  can't  be  anything  else. 
Anyhow,  I  owe  you  so  much  that  you  have  the  right  to 
ask  me  what  you  will.  .  .  .  There  it  is,  the  fatal  thing,"  she 
added. 

Her  eyes  were  raised  to  the  red  umbrella  which  had 
nearly  carried  her  over  into  the  cauldron  of  the  Zambesi 
Falls. 

"No,  it  is  the  world  that  owes  me  a  heavy  debt,"  he 
responded,  gallantly.  "I  was  merely  selfish  in  saving 
you." 

Her  eyes  rilled  with  tears,  which  she  brushed  away 
with  a  little  laugh. 

"Ah,  how  I  wish  it  was  that!  I  am  just  mean  enough 
to  want  you  to  want  me,  while  I  didn't  want  you.  That's 
the  woman,  and  that's  all  women,  and  there's  no  getting 
away  from  it.  But  still  I  would  rather  you  had  saved 
me  than  any  one  else  who  wasn't  bound,  like  Tynie,  to 
do  so." 

"Well,  it  did  seem  absurd  that  you  should  risk  so  much 
to  keep  a  sixpenny  umbrella,"  he  rejoined,  drily. 

"  How  we  play  on  the  surface  while  there's  so  much 
that  is  wearing  our  hearts  out  underneath,"  she  responded, 
wearily.  "Listen,  Ian,  you  know  what  I  mean.  Who- 
ever killed  Adrian  Fellowes,  or  didn't,  I  am  sure  that 
Jasmine  saw  him  dead.  Three  nights  ago  when  she 
fainted  and  went  ill  to  bed,  I  stayed  with  her,  slept  in  the 
same  room,  in  the  bed  beside  hers.  The  opiate  the  doctor 
gave  her  was  not  strong  enough,  and  two  or  three  times 
she  half  waked,  and — and  it  was  very  painful.  It  made 
my  heart  ache,  for  I  knew  it  wasn't  all  dreams.  I  am  sure 
she  saw  Adrian  Fellowes  lying  dead  in  his  room.  .  .  .  Ian, 
it  is  awful,  but  for  some  reason  she  hated  him,  and  she 
284 


ONE    WHO    CAME    SEARCHING 

saw  him  lying  dead.  If  any  one  knows  the  truth,  you 
know.  Jasmine  cares  for  you — no,  no,  don't  mind  my 
saying  it.  She  didn't  care  a  fig  for  Mennaval,  or  any  of 
the  others,  but  she  does  care  for  you — cares  for  you.  She 
oughtn't  to,  but  she  does,  and  she  should  have  married 
you  long  ago  before  Rudyard  Byng  came.  Please  don't 
think  I  am  interfering,  Ian.  I  am  not.  You  never  had  a 
better  friend  than  I  am.  But  there's  something  ghastly 
wrong.  Rudyard  is  looking  like  a  giant  that's  had 
blood-letting,  and  he  never  goes  near  Jasmine,  except 
when  some  one  is  with  her.  It's  a  bad  sign  when  two 
people  must  have  some  third  person  about  to  insulate 
their  self-consciousness  and  prevent  those  fatal  moments 
when  they  have  to  be  just  their  own  selves,  and  have  it 
out." 

"You  think  there's  been  trouble  between  them?"  His 
voice  was  quite  steady,  his  manner  composed. 

"I  don't  think  quite  that.  But  there  is  trouble  in 
that  palace.  Rudyard  is  going  to  South  Africa." 

"Well,  that  is  not  unnatural.  I  should  expect  him  to 
do  so.  I  am  going  to  South  Africa  also." 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him  without  speaking,  and 
her  face  slowly  paled.  "You  are  going  to  the  Front — 
you?" 

"Yes — 'Back  to  the  army  again,  sergeant,  back  to 
the  army  again.'  I  was  a  gunner,  you  know,  and  not  a 
bad  one,  either,  if  I  do  say  it." 

"You  are  going  to  throw  up  a  great  career  to  go  to  the 
Front?  When  you  have  got  your  foot  at  the  top  of  the 
ladder,  you  climb  down?"  Her  voice  was  choking  a 
little. 

He  made  a  little  whimsical  gesture.  "There's  another 
ladder  to  climb.  I'll  have  a  try  at  it,  and  do  my  duty 
to  my  country,  too.  I'll  have  a  double-barrelled  claim 
on  her,  if  possible." 

"I  know  that  you  are  going  because  you  will  not  stay 
when  Rudyard  goes,"  she  rejoined,  almost  irritably. 
285 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"What  a  quixotic  idea!    Really  you  are  too  impossible 
and  wrong-headed." 

He  turned  an  earnest  look  upon  her.  "No,  I  give  you 
my  word,  I  am  not  going  because  Rudyard  is  going.  I 
didn't  know  he  was  going  till  you  told  me.  I  got  per- 
mission to  go  three  hours  after  Kruger's  message  came." 

"You  are  only  feckless — only  feckless,  as  the  Scotch 
say, ' '  she  reioined  with  testy  sadness.  ' '  Well,  since  every- 
body is  going,  I  am  going  too.  I  am  going  with  a 
hospital-ship." 

"Well,  that  would  pay  off  a  lot  of  old  debts  to  the 
Almighty,"  he  replied,  in  kindly  taunt. 

"I  haven't  been  worse  than  most  women,  Ian,"  she 
replied.  "Women  haven't  been  taught  to  do  things,  to 
pay  off  their  debts.  Men  run  up  bills  and  pay  them  off, 
and  run  them  up  again  and  again  and  pay  them  off;  but 
we,  while  we  run  up  bills,  our  ways  of  paying  them  off  are 
so  few,  and  so  uninteresting." 

Suddenly  she  took  from  her  pocket  a  letter.  "Here  is 
a  letter  for  you,"  she  said.  "It  was  lying  on  Jasmine's 
table  the  night  she  was  taken  ill.  I  don't  know  why  I 
did  it,  but  I  suppose  I  took  it  up  so  that  Rudyard  should 
not  see  it;  and  then  I  didn't  say  anything  to  Jasmine 
about  it  at  once.  She  said  nothing,  either;  but  to-day 
I  told  her  I'd  seen  the  letter  addressed  to  you,  and  had 
posted  it.  I  said  it  to  see  how  she  would  take  it.  She 
only  nodded,  and  said  nothing  at  first.  Then  after  a 
while  she  whispered,  'Thank  you,  my  dear,'  but  in  such 
a  queer  tone.  Ian,  she  meant  you  to  have  the  letter, 
and  here  it  is." 

She  put  it  into  his  hands.  He  remembered  it.  It  was 
the  letter  which  Jasmine  had  laid  on  the  table  before  him 
at  that  last  interview  when  the  world  stood  still.  After  a 
moment's  hesitation  he  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"If  she  wished  me  to  have  it — "  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"If  not,  why,  then,  did  she  write  it?  Didn't  she  say 
she  was  glad  I  posted  it?" 

286 


ONE    WHO    CAME    SEARCHING 

A  moment  followed,  in  which  neither  spoke.  Lady 
Tynemouth's  eyes  were  turned  to  the  window;  Stafford 
stood  looking  into  the  fire. 

"Tynie  is  sure  to  go  to  South  Africa  with  his  Yeo- 
manry," she  continued  at  last.  "He'll  be  back  in  Eng- 
land next  week.  I  can  be  of  use  out  there,  too.  I  sup- 
pose you  think  I'm  useless  because  I've  never  had  to  do 
anything,  but  you  are  quite  wrong.  It's  in  me.  If  I'd 
been  driven  to  work  when  I  was  a  girl,  if  I'd  been  a 
labourer's  daughter,  I'd  have  made  hats — or  cream-cheeses. 
I'm  not  really  such  a  fool  as  you've  always  thought  me, 
Ian;  at  any  rate,  not  in  the  way  you've  thought  me." 

His  look  was  gentle,  as  he  gazed  into  her  eyes.  "I've 
never  thought  you  anything  but  a  very  sensible  and 
alluring  woman,  who  is  only  wilfully  foolish  at  times," 
he  said.  "You  do  dangerous  things." 

"But  you  never  knew  me  to  do  a  really  wrong  thing, 
and  if  you  haven't,  no  one  has." 

Suddenly  her  face  clouded  and  her  lips  trembled.  "But 
I  am  a  good  friend,  and  I  love  my  friends.  So  it  all  hurts. 
Ian,  I'm  most  upset.  There's  something  behind  Adrian 
Fellowes'  death  that  I  don't  understand.  I'm  sure  he 
didn't  kill  himself;  but  I'm  also  sure  that  some  one  did 
kill  him."  Her  eyes  sought  his  with  an  effort  and  with 
apprehension,  but  with  persistency  too.  "I  don't  care 
what  the  jury  said — I  know  I'm  right." 

"But  it  doesn't  matter  now,"  he  answered,  calmly. 
"He  will  be  buried  to-morrow,  and  there's  an  end  of  it 
all.  It  will  not  even  be  the  usual  nine  days'  wonder. 
I'd  forget  it,  if  I  were  you." 

"I  can't  easily  forget  it  while  you  remember  it,"  she 
rejoined,  meaningly.  "I  don't  know  why  or  how  it 
affects  you,  but  it  does  affect  you,  and  that's  why  I  feel 
it;  that's  why  it  haunts  me." 

Gleg  appeared.  "A  gentleman  to  see  you,  sir,"  he 
said,  and  handed  Ian  a  card. 

"Where  is  he?" 

287 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"In  the  dining-room,  sir." 

"Very  good.     I  will  see  him  in  a  moment." 

When  they  were  alone  again,  Lady  Tynemouth  held 
out  her  hand.  "When  do  you  start  for  South  Africa?" 
she  asked. 

"In  three  days.     I  join  my  battery  in  Natal." 

"You  will  hear  from  me  when  I  get  to  Durban,"  she 
said,  with  a  shy,  inquiring  glance. 

"You  are  really  going?" 

"I  mean  to  organize  a  hospital-ship  and  go." 

"Where  will  you  get  the  money?" 

"From  some  social  climber,"  she  replied,  cynically. 
His  hand  was  on  the  door-knob,  and  she  laid  her  own  on 
it  gently.  "You  are  ill,  Ian,"  she  said.  "I  have  never 
seen  you  look  as  you  do  now." 

"I  shall  be  better  before  long,"  he  answered.  "I 
never  saw  you  look  so  well." 

"That's  because  I  am  going  to  do  some  work  at  last," 
she  rejoined.  "Work  at  last.  I'll  blunder  a  bit,  but  I'll 
try  a  great  deal,  and  perhaps  I'll  do  some  good.  .  .  .  And 
I'll  be  there  to  nurse  you  if  you  get  fever  or  anything," 
she  added,  laughing  nervously — "you  and  Tynie." 

When  she  was  gone  he  stood  looking  at  the  card  in  his 
hand,  with  his  mind  seeing  something  far  beyond.  Pres- 
ently he  rang  for  Gleg. 

"Show  Mr.  Mappin  in,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

WHEREIN  THE   LOST   IS   FOUND 

IN  a  moment  the  great  surgeon  was  seated,  looking 
reflectively    round    him.      Soon,    however,    he    said, 
brusquely,  "I  hope  your  friend  Jigger  is  going  on  all 
right?" 

"Yes,  yes,  thanks  to  you." 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Stafford,  thanks  to  you  and  Mrs.  Byng 
chiefly.  It  was  care  and  nursing  that  did  it.  If  I  could 
have  hospitals  like  Glencader  and  hospital  nurses  like 
Mrs.  Byng  and  Al'mah  and  yourself,  I'd  have  few  regrets 
at  the  end  of  the  year.  That  was  an  exciting  time  at 
Glencader." 

Stafford  nodded,  but  said  nothing.  Presently,  after 
some  reference  to  the  disaster  at  the  mine  at  Glencader, 
and  to  Stafford's  and  Byng's  bravery,  Mr.  Mappin  said: 
"I  was  shocked  to  hear  of  Mr.  Fellowes'  death.  I  was 
out  of  town  when  it  happened — a  bad  case  at  Leeds;  but 
I  returned  early  this  morning."  He  paused,  inquiringly, 
but  Ian  said  nothing,  and  he  continued,  "I  have  seen  the 
body." 

"You  were  not  at  the  inquest,  I  think,"  Ian  remarked, 
casually. 

"No,  I  was  not  in  time  for  that,  but  I  got  permission 
to  view  the  body." 

"And  the  verdict — you  approve?" 

" Heart  failure — yes."  Mr.  Mappin's  lip  curled.  "Of 
course.  But  he  had  no  heart  trouble.  His  heart  wasn't 
even  weak.  His  life  showed  that." 

"His  life  showed — ?"     lan's  eyebrows  went  up. 
289 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"He  was  very  much  in  society,  and  there's  nothing 
more  strenuous  than  that.  His  heart  was  all  right. 
Something  made  it  fail,  and  I  have  been  considering 
what  it  was." 

"Are  you  suggesting  that  his  death  was  not  natural?" 
"Quite  artificial,  quite  artificial,  I  should  say." 
Ian  took  a  cigarette,  and  lighted  it  slowly.     "Accord- 
ing to  your  theory,  he  must  have  committed  suicide.     But 
how?     Not  by  an  effort  of  the  will,  as  they  do  in  the  East, 
I  suppose?" 

Mr.  Mappin  sat  up  stiffly  in  his  chair.     "Do  you  re- 
member my  showing  you  all  at  Glencader  a  needle  which 
had  on  its  point  enough  poison  to  kill  a  man?" 
"And  leave  no  trace — yes." 

"Do  you  remember  that  you  all  looked  at  it  with  in- 
terest, and  that  Mr.  Fellowes  examined  it  more  attentive- 
ly than  any  one  else?" 
"I  remember." 

"Well,  I  was  going  to  kill  a  collie  with  it  next  day." 
"A  favourite  collie  grown  old,  rheumatic — yes,  I  re- 
member." 

"Well,  the  experiment  failed." 
"The  collie  wasn't  killed  by  the  poison?" 
"No,  not  by  the  poison,  Mr.  Stafford." 
"So  your  theory  didn't  work  except  on  paper." 
"I  think  it  worked,  but  not  with  the  collie." 
There  was  a  pause,  while  Stafford  looked  composedly 
at  his  visitor,  and  then  he  said:  "Why  didn't  it  work  with 
the  collie?" 

"It  never  had  its  chance." 
"Some  mistake,  some  hitch?" 
"No  mistake,  no  hitch;  but  the  wrong  needle." 
"The  wrong  needle!     I  should  not  say  that  carelessness 
was  a  habit  with  you."     Stafford's  voice  was  civil  and 
sympathetic. 

"Confidence  breeds  carelessness,"  was  Mr.  Mappin's 
enigmatical  retort. 

290 


THE    LOST    IS    FOUND 

"You  were  over-confident  then?" 

"Quite  clearly  so.  I  thought  that  Glencader  was  be- 
yond reproach." 

There  was  a  slight  pause,  and  then  Stafford,  nicking 
away  some  cigarette  ashes,  continued  the  catechism. 
"What  particular  form  of  reproach  do  you  apply  to 
Glencader?" 

"Thieving." 

"That  sounds  reprehensible — and  rude." 

"If  you  were  not  beyond  reproach,  it  would  be  rude, 
Mr.  Stafford." 

Stafford  chafed  at  the  rather  superior  air  of  the  expert, 
whose  habit  of  bedside  authority  was  apt  to  creep  into 
his  social  conversation;  but,  while  he  longed  to  give  him 
a  shrewd  thrust,  he  forbore.  It  was  hard  to  tell  how 
much  he  might  have  to  do  to  prevent  the  man  from 
making  mischief.  The  compliment  had  been  smug,  and 
smugness  irritated  Stafford. 

"Well,  thanks  for  your  testimonial,"  he  said,  presently, 
and  then  he  determined  to  cut  short  the  tardy  revelation, 
and  prick  the  bubble  of  mystery  which  the  great  man  was 
so  slowly  blowing. 

"I  take  it  that  you  think  some  one  at  Glencader  stole 
your  needle,  and  so  saved  your  collie's  life,"  he  said. 

"That  is  what  I  mean,"  responded  Mr.  Mappin,  a  lit- 
tle discomposed  that  his  elaborate  synthesis  should  be  so 
sharply  brought  to  an  end. 

There  was  almost  a  grisly  raillery  in  Stafford's  reply. 
"Now,  the  collie — were  you  sufficiently  a  fatalist  to  let 
him  live,  or  did  you  prepare  another  needle,  or  do  it  in 
the  humdrum  way?" 

"I  let  the  collie  live." 

"  Hoping  to  find  the  needle  again?"  asked  Stafford,  with 
a  smile. 

"Perhaps  to  hear  of  it  again." 

"Hello,  that  is  rather  startling!  And  you  have  done 
so?" 

291 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"I  think  so.     Yes,  I  may  say  that." 

"Now  how  do  you  suppose  you  lost  that  needle?" 

"It  was  taken  from  my  pocket-case,  and  another 
substituted. 

"Returning  good  for  evil.  Could  you  not  see  the  dif- 
ference in  the  needles?" 

"There  is  not,  necessarily,  difference  in  needles.  The 
substitute  was  the  same  size  and  shape,  and  I  was  not 
suspicious." 

"And  what  form  does  your  suspicion  take  now?" 

The  great  man  became  rather  portentously  solemn — 
he  himself  would  have  said  "becomingly  grave."  "M)' 
conviction  is  that  Mr.  Fellowes  took  my  needle." 

Stafford  fixed  the  other  with  his  gaze.  "And  killed 
himself  with  it?" 

Mr.  Mappin  frowned.  "Of  that  I  cannot  be  sure,  of 
course." 

"  Could  you  not  tell  by  examining  the  body?" 

"Not  absolutely  from  a  superficial  examination." 

"You  did  not  think  a  scientific  examination  neces- 
sary?" 

"Yes,  perhaps;  but  the  official  inquest  is  over,  the 
expert  analysis  or  examination  is  finished  by  the  authori- 
ties, and  the  superficial  proofs,  while  convincing  enough 
to  me,  are  not  complete  and  final;  and  so,  there  you  are." 

Stafford  got  and  held  his  visitor's  eyes,  and  with  slow 
emphasis  said:  "You  think  that  Fellowes  committed 
suicide  with  your  needle?" 

"No,  I  didn't  say  that." 

"Then  I  fear  my  intelligence  must  be  failing  rapidly. 
You  said — " 

"I  said  I  was  not  sure  that  he  killed  himself.  I  am 
sure  that  he  was  killed  by  my  needle;  but  I  am  not  sure 
that  he  killed  himself.  Motive  and  all  that  kind  of  thing 
would  come  in  there." 

"Ah — and  all  that  kind  of  thing!    Why  should  you 
discard  motive  for  his  killing  himself?" 
292 


THE    LOST    IS    FOUND 

"I  did  not  say  I  discarded  motive,  but  I  think  Mr. 
Fellowes  the  last  man  in  the  world  likely  to  kill  himself." 

"Why,  then,  do  you  think  he  stole  the  needle?" 

"Not  to  kiU  himself." 

Stafford  turned  his  head  away  a  little.  "Come  now; 
this  is  too  tall.  You  are  going  pretty  far  in  suggesting 
that  Fellowes  took  your  needle  to  kill  some  one  else." 

"Perhaps.     But  motive  might  not  be  so  far  to  seek." 

"What  motive  in  this  case?"  Stafford's  eyes  narrowed 
a  little  with  the  inquiry. 

"Well,  a  woman,  perhaps." 

"You  know  of  some  one,  who — " 

"No.  I  am  only  assuming  from  Mr.  Fellowes'  some- 
what material  nature  that  there  must  be  a  woman  or  so." 

"Or  so — why  'or  so?'  "  Stafford  pressed  him  into  a 
corner. 

"There  comes  the  motive — one  too  many,  when  one 
may  be  suspicious,  or  jealous,  or  revengeful,  or  impos- 
sible." 

"Did  you  see  any  mark  of  the  needle  on  the  body?" 

"  I  think  so.  But  that  would  not  do  more  than  suggest 
further  delicate,  detailed,  and  final  examination." 

"You  have  no  trace  of  the  needle  itself?" 

"None.  But  surely  that  isn't  strange.  If  he  had 
killed  himself,  the  needle  would  probably  have  been  found. 
If  he  did  not  kill  himself,  but  yet  was  killed  by  it,  there 
is  nothing  strange  in  its  not  being  recovered." 

Stafford  took  on  the  gravity  of  a  dry-as-dust  judge. 
"I  suppose  that  to  prove  the  case  it  would  be  necessary 
to  produce  the  needle,  as  your  theory  and  your  invention 
are  rather  new." 

"For  complete  proof  the  needle  would  be  necessary, 
though  not  indispensable." 

Stafford  was  silent  for  an  instant,  then  he  said:  "You 
have  had  a  look  for  the  little  instrument  of  passage?" 

"I  was  rather  late  for  that,  I  fear." 

"Still,  by  chance,  the  needle  might  have  been  picked 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

up.  However,  it  would  look  foolish  to  advertise  for  a 
needle  which  had  traces  of  atric  acid  on  it,  wouldn't  it?" 

Mr.  Mappin  looked  at  Stafford  quite  coolly,  and  then, 
ignoring  the  question,  said,  deliberately:  "You  discovered 
the  body,  I  hear.  You  didn't  by  any  chance  find  the 
needle,  I  suppose?" 

Stafford  returned  his  look  with  a  cool  stare.  "Not  by 
any  chance,"  he  said,  enigmatically. 

He  had  suddenly  decided  on  a  line  of  action  which  would 
turn  this  astute  egoist  from  his  half-indicated  purpose. 
Whatever  the  means  of  Fellowes'  death,  by  whomsoever 
caused,  or  by  no  one,  further  inquiry  could  only  result  in 
revelations  hurtful  to  some  one.  As  Mr.  Mappin  had  sur- 
mised, there  was  more  than  one  woman, — there  may  have 
been  a  dozen,  of  course — but  chance  might  just  pitch  on 
the  one  whom  investigation  would  injure  most. 

If  this  expert  was  quieted,  and  Fellowes  was  safely  be- 
stowed in  his  grave,  the  tragic  incident  would  be  lost 
quickly  in  the  general  excitement  and  agitation  of  the 
nation.  The  war-drum  would  drown  any  small  human 
cries  of  suspicion  or  outraged  innocence.  Suppose  some 
one  did  kill  Adrian  Fellowes?  He  deserved  to  die,  and 
justice  was  satisfied,  even  if  the  law  was  marauded. 
There  were  at  least  four  people  who  might  have  killed 
Fellowes  without  much  remorse.  There  was  Rudyard, 
there  was  Jasmine,  there  was  Lou  the  erstwhile  flower- 
girl — and  himself.  It  was  necessary  that  Mappin,  how- 
ever, should  be  silenced,  and  sent  about  his  business. 

Stafford  suddenly  came  over  to  the  table  near  to  his 
visitor,  and  with  an  assumed  air  of  cold  indignation, 
though  with  a  little  natural  irritability  behind  all,  said, 
"  Mr.  Mappin,  I  assume  that  you  have  not  gone  elsewhere 
with  your  suspicions?" 

The  other  shook  his  head  in  negation. 

"Very  well,  I  should  strongly  advise  you,  for  your  own 
reputation  as  an  expert  and  a  man  of  science,  not  to 
attempt  the  rather  cliche  occupation  of  trying  to  rival 
294 


THE    LOST    IS    FOUND 

Sherlock  Holmes.  Your  suspicions  may  have  some  dis- 
tant justification,  but  only  a  man  of  infinite  skill,  tact, 
and  knowledge,  with  an  almost  abnormal  gift  for  tracing 
elusive  clues  and,  when  finding  them,  making  them  fit  in 
with  fact — only  a  man  like  yourself,  a  genius  at  the  job, 
could  get  anything  out  of  it.  You  are  not  prepared  to 
give  the  time,  and  you  could  only  succeed  in  causing  pain 
and  annoyance  beyond  calculation.  Just  imagine  a  Scot- 
land Yard  detective  with  such  a  delicate  business  to  do. 
We  have  no  Hamards  here,  no  French  geniuses  who  can 
reconstruct  crimes  by  a  kind  of  special  sense.  Can  you 
not  see  the  average  detective  blundering  about  with  his 
ostentatious  display  of  the  obvious;  his  mind,  which  never 
traced  a  motive  in  its  existence,  trying  to  elucidate  a  clue? 
Well,  it  is  the  business  of  the  Law  to  detect  and  punish 
crime.  Let  the  Law  do  it  in  its  own  way,  find  its  own 
clues,  solve  the  mysteries  given  it  to  solve.  Why  should 
you  complicate  things?  The  official  fellows  could  never 
do  what  you  could  do,  if  you  were  a  detective.  They 
haven't  the  brains  or  initiative  or  knowledge.  And  since 
you  are  not  a  detective,  and  can't  devote  yourself  to  this 
most  delicate  problem,  if  there  be  any  problem  at  all,  I 
would  suggest — I  imitate  your  own  rudeness — that  you 
mind  your  own  business." 

He  smiled,  and  looked  down  at  his  visitor  with  in- 
scrutable eyes. 

At  the  last  words  Mr.  Mappin  flushed  and  looked  con- 
sequential; but  under  the  influence  of  a  smile,  so  winning 
that  many  a  chancellerie  of  Europe  had  lost  its  irritation 
over  some  skilful  diplomatic  stroke  made  by  its  possessor, 
he  emerged  from  his  atmosphere  of  offended  dignity  and 
feebly  returned  the  smile. 

"You  are  at  once  complimentary  and  scathing,  Mr. 
Stafford,"  he  said;  "but  I  do  recognize  the  force  of  what 
you  say.  Scotland  Yard  is  beneath  contempt.  I  know 
of  cases — but  I  will  not  detain  you  with  them  now.  They 
bungle  their  work  terribly  at  Scotland  Yard.  A  detec- 
20  295 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

tive  should  be  a  man  of  imagination,  of  initiative,  of  deep 
knowledge  of  human  nature.  In  the  presence  of  a  mys- 
tery he  should  be  ready  to  find  motives,  to  construct 
them  and  put  them  into  play,  as  though  they  were  real — 
work  till  a  clue  was  found.  Then,  if  none  is  found,  find 
another  motive  and  work  on  that.  The  French  do  it. 
They  are  marvels.  Hamard  is  a  genius,  as  you  say.  He 
imagines,  he  constructs,  he  pursues,  he  squeezes  out  every 
drop  of  juice  in  the  orange.  .  .  .  You  see,  I  agree  with  you 
on  the  whole,  but  this  tragedy  disturbed  me,  and  I  thought 
that  I  had  a  real  clue.  I  still  believe  I  have,  but — cui 
bono?" 

"Cut  bono  indeed,  if  it  is  bungled.  If  you  could  do  it 
all  yourself,  good.  But  that  is  impossible.  The  world 
wants  your  skill  to  save  life,  not  to  destroy  it.  Fellowes 
is  dead — does  it  matter  so  infinitely,  whether  by  his  own 
hand  or  that  of  another?" 

"No,  I  frankly  say  I  don't  think  it  does  matter  in- 
finitely. His  type  is  no  addition  to  the  happiness  of  the 
world." 

They  looked  at  each  other  meaningly,  and  Mappin  re- 
sponded once  again  to  Stafford's  winning  smile. 

It  pleased  him  prodigiously  to  feel  Stafford  lay  a  firm 
hand  on  his  arm  and  say:  "Can  you,  perhaps,  dine  with 
me  to-night  at  the  Travellers'  Club?  It  makes  life  worth 
while  to  talk  to  men  like  you  who  do  really  big  things." 

"I  shall  be  delighted  to  come  for  your  own  reasons," 
answered  the  great  man,  beaming,  and  adjusting  his  cuffs 
carefully. 

"Good,  good.  It  is  capital  to  find  you  free."  Again 
Stafford  caught  the  surgeon's  arm  with  a  friendly  little 
grip. 

Suddenly,  however,  Mr.  Mappin  became  aware  that 
Stafford  had  turned  desperately  white  and  worn.  He  had 
noticed  this  spent  condition  when  he  first  came  in,  but 
his  eyes  now  rediscovered  it.  He  regarded  Stafford  with 
concern. 

296 


THE   LOST   IS    FOUND 

"Mr.  Stafford,"  he  said,  "I  am  sure  you  do  not  realize 

how  much  below  par  you  are You  have  been  under 

great  strain — I  know,  we  all  know,  how  hard  you  have 
worked  lately.  Through  you,  England  launches  her  ship 
of  war  without  fear  of  complications;  but  it  has  told  on 
you  heavily.  Nothing  is  got  without  paying  for  it.  You 
need  rest,  and  you  need  change." 

"Quite  so — rest  and  change.  I  am  going  to  have  both 
now,"  said  Stafford  with  a  smile,  which  was  forced  and 
wan. 

"You  need  a  tonic  also,  and  you  must  allow  me  to 
give  you  one,"  was  the  brusque  professional  response. 

With  quick  movement  he  went  over  to  Stafford's 
writing-table,  and  threw  open  the  cover  of  the  blotter. 

In  a  flash  Stafford  was  beside  him,  and  laid  a  hand  upon 
the  blotter,  saying  with  a  smile,  of  the  kind  which  had  so 
far  done  its  work — 

"No,  no,  my  friend,  I  will  not  take  a  tonic.  It's  only 
a  good  sleep  I  want,  and  I'll  get  that  to-night.  But  I  give 
my  word,  if  I'm  not  all  right  to-morrow,  if  I  don't  sleep, 
I'll  send  to  you  and  take  your  tonic  gladly." 

"You  promise?" 

"I  promise,  my  dear  Mappin." 

The  great  man  beamed  again:  and  he  really  was 
solicitous  for  his  new-found  friend. 

"Very  well,  very  well — Stafford,"  he  replied.  "It 
shall  be  as  you  say.  Good-bye,  or,  rather,  au  revoir!" 

"  A  la  bonne  heure!"  was  the  hearty  response,  as  the  door 
opened  for  the  great  surgeon's  exit. 

When  the  door  was  shut  again,  and  Stafford  was  alone, 
he  staggered  over  to  the  writing-desk.  Opening  the  blot- 
ter, he  took  something  up  carefully  and  looked  at  it  with 
a  sardonic  smile. 

"You  did  your  work  quite  well,"  he  said,  reflectively. 

It  was  such  a  needle  as  he  had  seen  at  Glencader  in  Mr. 
Mappin's  hand.  He  had  picked  it  up  in  Adrian  Fellowes' 
room. 

297 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"  I  wonder  who  used  you,"  he  said  in  a  hard  voice.  "  I 
wonder  who  used  you  so  well.  Was  it — was  it  Jasmine?" 

With  a  trembling  gesture  he  sat  down,  put  the  needle 
in  a  drawer,  locked  it,  and  turned  round  to  the  fire  again. 

"Was  it  Jasmine?"  he  repeated,  and  he  took  from  his 
pocket  the  letter  which  Lady  Tynemouth  had  given  him. 
For  a  moment  he  looked  at  it  unopened — at  the  beautiful, 
smooth  handwriting  so  familiar  to  his  eyes;  then  he  slowly 
broke  the  seal,  and  took  out  the  closely  written  pages. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
JASMINE'S  LETTER 

"  T  AN,  oh,  Ian,  what  strange  and  flreadful  things  you  have  written 

1  to  me!"  Jasmine's  letter  ran — the  letter  which  she  told  him 
she  had  written  on  that  morning  when  all  was  lost.  "  Do  you  realize 
what  you  have  said,  and,  saying  it,  have  you  thought  of  all  it  means 
to  me?  You  have  tried  to  think  of  what  is  best,  I  know;  but  have 
you  thought  of  me?  When  I  read  your  letter  first,  a  flood  of  fire 
seemed  to  run  through  my  veins;  then  I  became  as  though  I  had 
been  dipped  in  ether,  and  all  the  winds  of  an  arctic  sea  were  blowing 
over  me. 

"To  go  with  you  now,  far  away  from  the  world  in  which  We  live 
and  in  which  you  work,  to  begin  life  again,  as  you  say — how  sweet 
and  terrible  and  glad  it  would  be!  But  I  know,  oh,  I  know  myself, 
and  I  know  you!  I  am  like  one  who  has  lived  forever.  I  am  not 
good,  and  I  am  not  foolish,  I  am  only  mad;  and  the  madness  in  me 
urges  me  to  that  visionary  world  where  you  and  I  could  live  and 
work  and  wander,  and  be  content  with  all  that  would  be  given  us — 
joy,  seeing,  understanding,  revealing,  doing. 

"But  Ian,  it  is  only  a  visionary  world,  that  world  of  which  you 
speak.  It  does  not  exist.  The  overmastering  love,  the  desire  for 
you  that  is  in  me,  makes  for  me  the  picture  as  it  is  in  your  mind; 
but  down  beneath  all,  the  woman  in  me,  the  everlasting  woman,  is 
sure  there  is  no  such  world. 

"  Listen,  dear  child — I  call  you  that,  for  though  I  am  only  twenty- 
five  I  seem  as  aged  as  the  Sphinx,  and,  like  the  Sphinx  that  begets 
mockery,  so  my  soul,  which  seems  to  have  looked  out  over  unnum- 
bered centuries,  mocks  at  this  world  which  you  would  make  for 
you  and  me.  Listen,  Ian.  It  is  not  a  real  world,  and  I  should  not 
— and  that  is  the  pitiful,  miserable  part  of  it — I  should  not  make 
you  happy,  if  I  were  in  that  world  with  you.  To  my  dire  regret  I 
know  it.  Suddenly  you  have  roused  in  me  what  I  can  honestly  say 
I  have  never  felt  before — strange,  reckless,  hungry  feelings.  I  am 
like  some  young  dweller  of  the  jungle  which,  cut  off  from  its  kind, 
tries,  with  a  passion  that  eats  and  eats  and  eats  away  his  very  flesh, 
to  get  back  to  its  kind,  to  his  mate,  to  that  other  wild  child  of  nature 
which  waits  for  the  one  appeasement  of  primeval  desire, 
299 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"Ian,  I  must  tell  you  the  whole  truth  about  myself  as  I  under* 
stand  it.  I  am  a  hopeless,  painful  contradiction;  I  have  always 
been  so.  I  have  always  wanted  to  be  good,  but  something  has  al- 
ways driven  me  where  the  flowers  have  a  poisonous  sweetness,  where 
the  heart  grows  bad.  I  want  to  cry  to  you,  Ian,  to  help  me  to  be 
good;  and  yet  something  drives  me  on  to  want  to  share  with  you 
the  fruit  which  turns  to  dust  and  ashes  in  the  long  end.  And  behind 
all  that  again,  some  tiny  little  grain  of  honour  in  me  says  that  I  must 
not  ask  you  to  help  me;  says  that  I  ought  never  to  look  into  your 
eyes  again,  never  touch  your  hand,  nor  see  you  any  more;  and  from 
the  little  grain  of  honour  comes  the  solemn  whisper, '  Do  not  ruin 
him;  do  not  spoil  his  life.' 

"Your  letter  has  torn  my  heart,  so  that  it  can  never  again  be  as 
it  was  before,  and  because  there  is  some  big,  noble  thing  in  you, 
some  little,  not  ignoble  thing  is  born  in  me.  Ian,  you  could  never 
know  the  anguished  desire  I  have  to  be  with  you  always;  but,  if  I 
keep  sane  at  all,  I  will  not  go — no,  I  will  not  go  with  you,  unless  the 
madness  carries  me  away.  It  would  loll  you.  I  know,  because  I 
have  lived  so  many  thousands  of  years.  My  spirit  and  my  body 
might  be  satisfied,  the  glory  in  having  you  all  my  own  would  be  so 
great;  but  there  would  be  no  joy  for  you.  To  men  like  you,  work 
is  as  the  breath  of  life.  You  must  always  be  fighting  for  something, 
always  climbing  higher,  because  you  see  some  big  thing  to  do  which 
is  so  far  above  you. 

"Yes,  men  like  you  get  their  chance  sooner  or  later,  because  you 
work,  and  are  ready  to  take  the  gifts  of  Fate  when  they  appear  and 
before  they  pass.  You  will  be  always  for  climbing,  if  some  woman 
does  not  drag  you  back.  That  woman  may  be  a  wife,  or  it  may  be 
a  loving  and  living  ghost  of  a  wife  like  me.  Ian,  I  could  not  bear 
to  see  what  would  come  at  last — the  disappointment  in  your  face; 
the  look  of  hope  gone  from  your  eyes;  your  struggle  to  climb,  and 
the  struggle  of  no  avail.  Sisyphus  had  never  such  a  task  as  you 
would  have  on  the  hill  of  life,  if  I  left  all  behind  here  and  went  with 
you.  You  would  try  to  hide  it;  but  I  would  see  you  growing  older 
hourly  before  my  eyes.  You  would  smile — I  wonder  if  you  know 
what  sort  of  wonderful,  alluring  thing  your  smile  is,  Ian? — and  that 
smile  would  drive  me  to  kill  myself,  and  so  hurt  you  still  more. 
And  so  it  is  always  an  everlasting  circle  of  penalty  and  pain  when 
you  take  the  laws  of  life  you  get  in  the  mountains  in  your  hands, 
and  break  them  in  pieces  on  the  rocks  in  the  valleys,  and  make 
new  individual  laws  out  of  harmony  with  the  general  necessity. 

"Isn't  it  strange,  Ian,  that  I  who  can  do  wrong  so  easily  still 

know  so  well  and  value  so  well  what  is  right?     It  is  my  mother  in 

me  and  my  grandfather  in  me,  both  of  them  fighting  for  possession. 

Let  me  empty  out  my  heart  before  you,  because  I  know— I  do  not 

300 


JASMINE'S    LETTER 

know  why,  but  I  do  know,  as  I  write — that  some  dark  cloud  lowers, 
gathers  round  us,  in  which  we  shall  be  lost,  shall  miss  the  touch  of 
hand  and  never  see  each  other's  face  again.  I  know  it,  oh  so  surely! 
I  did  not  really  love  you  years  ago,  before  I  married  Rudyard ;  I  did 
not  love  you  when  I  married  him;  I  did  not  love  him;  I  could  not 
really  love  any  one.  My  heart  was  broken  up  in  a  thousand  pieces 
to  give  away  in  little  bits  to  all  who  came.  But  I  cared  for  you 
more  than  I  cared  for  any  one  else — so  much  more;  because  you 
were  so  able  and  powerful,  and  were  meant  to  do  such  big  things; 
and  I  had  just  enough  intelligence  to  want  to  understand  you;  to 
feel  what  you  were  thinking,  to  grasp  its  meaning,  however  dimly. 
Yet  I  have  no  real  intellect.  I  am  only  quick  and  rather  clever — 
sharp,  as  Jigger  would  say,  and  with  some  cunning,  too.  I  have 
made  so  many  people  believe  that  I  am  brilliant.  When  I  think 
and  talk  and  write,  I  only  give  out  in  a  new  light  what  others  like 
you  have  taught  me;  give  out  a  loaf  where  you  gave  me  a  crumb; 
blow  a  drop  of  water  into  a  bushel  of  bubbles.  No,  I  did  not  love 
you,  in  the  big  way,  in  those  old  days,  and  maybe  it  is  not  love  I 
feel  for  you  now;  but  it  is  a  great  and  wonderful  thing,  so  different 
from  the  feeling  I  once  had.  It  is  very  powerful,  and  it  is  also  very 
cruel,  because  it  smothers  me  in  one  moment,  and  in  the  next  it 
makes  me  want  to  fly  to  you,  heedless  of  consequences. 

"And  what  might  those  consequences  be,  Ian,  and  shall  I  let  you 
face  them?  The  real  world,  your  world,  England,  Europe,  would 
have  no  more  use  for  all  your  skill  and  knowledge  and  power,  be- 
cause there  would  be  a  woman  in  the  way.  People  who  would  want 
to  be  your  helpers,  and  to  follow  you,  would  turn  away  when  they 
saw  you  coming;  or  else  they  would  say  the  superficial  things  which 
are  worse  than  blows  in  the  face  to  a  man  who  wants  to  feel  that 
men  look  to  him  to  help  solve  the  problems  perplexing  the  world. 
While  it  may  not  be  love  I  feel  for  you,  whatever  it  is,  it  makes  me 
a  little  just  and  unselfish  now.  I  will  not — unless  a  spring-time 
madness  drives  me  to  it  to-day — I  will  not  go  with  you. 

"As  for  the  other  solution  you  offer,  deceiving  the  world  as  to 
your  purposes,  to  go  far  away  upon  some  wild  mission,  and  to  die! 

"Ah,  no,  you  must  not  cheat  the  world  so;  you  must  not  cheat 
yourself  so!  And  how  cruel  it  would  be  to  me!  Whatever  I  deserve 
— and  in  leaving  you  to  marry  Rudyard  I  deserved  heavy  punish- 
ment— still  I  do  not  deserve  the  torture  which  would  follow  me  to 
the  last  day  of  my  life  if,  because  of  me,  you  sacrificed  that  which 
is  not  yours  alone,  but  which  belongs  to  all  the  world.  I  loathe  my- 
self when  I  think  of  the  old  wrong  that  I  did  you;  but  no  leper 
woman  could  look  upon  herself  with  such  horror  as  I  should  upon 
myself,  if,  for  the  new  wrong  I  have  done  you,  you  were  to  take 
your  own  life. 

301 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"These  are  so  many  words,  and  perhaps  they  will  not  read  to 
you -as  real.  That  is  perhaps  because  I  am  only  shallow  at  the 
best;  am  only,  as  you  once  called  me,  'a  little  burst  of  eloquence.' 
But  even  I  can  suffer,  and  I  believe  that  even  I  can  love.  You 
say  you  cannot  go  on  as  things  are;  that  I  must  go  with  you  or 
you  must  die;  and  yet  you  do  not  wish  me  to  go  with  you.  You 
have  said  that,  too.  But  do  you  not  wonder  what  would  become  of 
me,  if  either  of  these  alternatives  is  followed?  A  little  while  ago 
I  could  deceive  Rudyard,  and  put  myself  in  pretty  clothes  with  a 
smile,  and  enjoy  my  breakfast  with  him  and  look  in  his  face  boldly, 
and  enjoy  the  clothes,  and  the  world  and  the  gay  things  that  are 
in  it,  perhaps  because  I  had  no  real  moral  sense.  Isn't  it  strange  that 
out  of  the  thing  which  the  world  would  condemn  as  most  immoral, 
as  the  very  degradation  of  the  heart  and  soul  and  body,  there  should 
spring  up  a  new  sense  that  is  moral — perhaps  the  first  true  glim- 
mering of  it?  Oh,  dear  love  of  my  life,  comrade  of  my  soul,  some- 
thing has  come  to  me  which  I  never  had  before,  and  for  that,  what- 
ever comes,  my  lifelong  gratitude  must  be  yours!  What  I  now  feel 
could  never  have  come  except  through  fire  and  tears,  as  you  yourself 
say,  and  I  know  so  well  that  the  fire  is  at  my  feet,  and  the  tears — I 
wept  them  all  last  night,  when  I  too  wanted  to  die. 

"You  are  coming  at  eleven  to-day,  Ian — at  eleven.  It  is  now 
eight.  I  will  try  and  send  this  letter  to  reach  you  before  you  leave 
your  rooms.  If  not,  I  will  give  it  to  you  when  you  come — at 
eleven.  Why  did  you  not  say  noon — noon — twelve  of  the  clock? 
The  end  and  the  beginning!  Why  did  you  not  say  noon,  Ian? 
The  light  is  at  its  zenith  at  noon,  at  twelve;  and  the  world  is  dark 
at  twelve — at  midnight.  Twelve  at  noon;  twelve  at  night;  the 
light  and  the  dark — which  will  it  be  for  us,  Ian?  Night  or  noon? 
I  wonder,  oh,  I  wonder  if,  when  I  see  you,  I  shall  have  the  strength 
to  say,  'Yes,  go,  and  come  again  no  more.'  Or  whether,  in  spite  of 
everything,  I  shall  wildly  say,  'Let  us  go  away  together.'  Such  is 
the  kind  of  woman  that  I  am.  And  you — dear  lover,  tell  me  truly 
what  kind  of  man  are  you? 

"Your  "JASMINE." 

He  read  the  letter  slowly,  and  he  stopped  again  and 
again  as  though  to  steady  himself.  His  face  became 
strained  and  white,  and  once  he  poured  brandy  and  drank 
it  off  as  though  it  were  water.  When  he  had  finished  the 
letter  he  went  heavily  over  to  the  fire  and  dropped  it  in. 
He  watched  it  burn,  until  only  the  flimsy  carbon  was  left. 

"If  I  had  not  gone  till  noon,"  he  said  aloud,  in  a  nerve- 
302 


JASMINE'S    LETTER 

less  voice — "if  I  had  not  gone  till  noon  .  .  .  Fellowes — 
did  she — or  was  it  Byng?" 

He  was  so  occupied  with  his  thoughts  that  he  was  not 
at  first  conscious  that  some  one  was  knocking. 

"Come  in,"  he  called  out  at  last. 

The  door  opened  and  Rudyard  Byng  entered. 

"  I  am  going  to  South  Africa,  Stafford,"  he  said,  heavily. 
"I  hear  that  you  are  going,  too;  and  I  have  come  to  see 
whether  we  cannot  go  out  together." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

KROOL 

MESSAGE  from  Mr.  Byng  to  say  that  he  may  be  a 
little  late,  but  he  says  will  you  go  on  without  him? 
He  will  come  as  soon  as  possible." 

The  footman,  having  delivered  himself,  turned  to  with- 
draw, but  Barry  Whalen  called  him  back,  saying,  "Is 
Mr.  Krool  in  the  house?" 

The  footman  replied  in  the  affirmative.  "  Did  you  wish 
to  see  him,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"Not  at  present.  A  little  later  perhaps,"  answered 
Barry,  with  a  glance  round  the  group,  who  eyed  him 
curiously. 

At  a  word  the  footman  withdrew.  As  the  door  closed, 
little  black,  oily  Sobieski  dit  Melville  said  with  an  attempt 
at  a  joke,  "Is  'Mr.'  Krool  to  be  called  into  consul- 
tation?" 

"  Don't  be  so  damned  funny,  Melville,"  answered  Barry. 
"I  didn't  ask  the  question  for  nothing." 

"These  aren't  days  when  anybody  guesses  much,"  re- 
marked Fleming.  "And  I'd  like  to  know  from  Mr. 
Kruger,  who  knows  a  lot  of  things,  and  doesn't  gas, 
whether  he  means  the  mines  to  be  safe." 

They  all  looked  inquiringly  at  Wallstein,  who  in  the 
storms  which  rocked  them  all  kept  his  nerve  and  his 
countenance  with  a  power  almost  benign.  His  large, 
limpid  eye  looked  little  like  that  belonging  to  an  eagle  of 
finance,  as  he  had  been  called. 

"It  looked  for  a  while  as  though  they'd  be  left  alone," 
said  Wallstein,  leaning  heavily  on  the  table,  "but  I'm  not 
304 


KROOL 

so  sure  now."     He  glanced  at  Barry  Whalen  significantly, 
and  the  latter  surveyed  the  group  enigmatically. 

"There's  something  evidently  waiting  to  be  said,"  re- 
marked Wolff,  the  silent  Partner  in  more  senses  than  one. 
"What's  the  use  of  waiting?" 

Two  or  three  of  those  present  looked  at  Ian  Stafford, 
who,  standing  by  the  window,  seemed  oblivious  of  them 
all.  Byng  had  requested  him  to  be  present,  with  a  view 
to  asking  his  advice  concerning  some  international  aspect 
of  the  situation,  and  especially  in  regard  to  Holland  and 
Germany.  The  group  had  welcomed  the  suggestion 
eagerly,  for  on  this  side  of  the  question  they  were  not  so 
well  equipped  as  on  others.  But  when  it  came  to  the 
discussion  of  inner  local  policy  there  seemed  hesitation 
in  speaking  freely  before  him.  Wallstein,  however,  gave 
a  reassuring  nod  and  said,  meaningly: 

"We  took  up  careful  strategical  positions,  but  our  camp 
has  been  overlooked  from  a  kopje  higher  than  ours." 

"We  have  been  the  victims  of  treachery  for  years," 
burst  out  Fleming,  with  anger.  "  Nearly  everything  we've 
done  here,  nearly  everything  the  Government  has  done 
here,  has  been  known  to  Kruger — ever  since  the  Raid." 

"I  think  it  could  have  been  stopped,"  said  the  once 
Sobieski,  with  an  ugly  grimace,  and  an  attempt  at  an 
accent  which  would  suit  his  new  name.  "Byng's  to 
blame.  We  ought  to  have  put  down  our  feet  from  the 
start.  We're  Byng-ridden." 

"Keep  a  civil  tongue,  Israel,"  snarled  Barry  Whalen. 
"You  know  nothing  about  it,  and  that  is  the  state  in  which 
you  most  shine — in  your  natural  state  of  ignorance,  like 
the  heathen  in  his  blindness.  But  before  Byng  comes  I'd 
better  give  you  all  some  information  I've  got." 

"Isn't  it  for  Byng  to  hear?"  asked  Fleming. 

"Very  much  so;  but  it's  for  you  all  to  decide  what's  to 
be  done.     Perhaps  Mr.  Stafford  can  help  us  in  the  matter, 
as  he  has  been  with  Byng  very  lately."     Wallstein  looked 
inquiringly  towards  Stafford. 
305 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

The  group  nodded  appreciatively,  and  Stafford  tame 
forward  to  the  table,  but  without  seating  himself.  "Cer- 
tainly you  may  command  me,"  he  said.  "What  is  the 
mystery?" 

In  short  and  abrupt  sentences  Barry  Whalen,  with  an 
occasional  interjection  and  explanation  from  Wallstein, 
told  of  the  years  of  leakage  in  regard  to  their  plans,  of 
moves  circumvented  by  information  which  could  only 
have  been  got  by  treacherous  means  either  in  South  Africa 
or  in  London. 

"We  didn't  know  for  sure  which  it  was,"  said  Barry, 
"but  the  proof  has  come  at  last.  One  of  Kruger's  under- 
strappers from  Holland  was  successfully  tapped,  and  we've 
got  proof  that  the  trouble  was  here  in  London,  here  in  this 
house  where  we  sit — Byng's  home." 

There  was  a  stark  silence,  in  which  more  than  one 
nodded  significantly,  and  looked  round  furtively  to  see 
how  the  others  took  the  news. 

"Here  is  absolute  proof.  There  were  two  in  it  here — 
Adrian  Fellowes  and  Krool." 

"Adrian  Fellowes!" 

It  was  Ian  Stafford's  voice,  insistent  and  inquiring. 

"Here  is  the  proof,  as  I  say."  Barry  Whalen  leaned 
forward  and  pushed  a  paper  over  on  the  table,  to  which 
were  attached  two  or  three  smaller  papers  and  some 
cablegrams.  "Look  at  them.  Take  a  good  look  at  them, 
and  see  how  we've  been  done — done  brown.  The  hand 
that  dipped  in  the  same  dish,  as  it  were,  has  handed  out 
misfortune  to  us  by  the  bucketful.  We've  been  carted 
in  the  house  of  a  friend." 

The  group,  all  standing,  leaned  over,  as  Barry  Whalen 
showed  them  the  papers,  one  by  one,  then  passed  them 
round  for  examination. 

"It's  deadly,"  said  Fleming.  "Men  have  had  their 
throats  cut  or  been  hanged  for  less.  I  wouldn't  mind  a 
hand  in  it  myself." 

"We  warned  Byng   years  ago,"   interposed  Barry 
306 


KROOL 

"but  it  was  no  use.  And  we've  paid  for  it  par  and 
premium." 

"What  can  be  done  to  Krool?"  asked  Fleming. 

"Nothing  particular — here,"  said  Barry  Whalen,  omi- 
nously. 

"Let's  have  the  dog  in,"  urged  one  of  the  group. 

"Without  Byng's  permission?"  interjected  Wallstein. 

There  was  a  silence.  The  last  time  any  of  them,  except 
Wallstein,  had  seen  Byng,  was  on  the  evening  when  he 
had  overheard  the  slanders  concerning  Jasmine,  and  none 
had  pleasant  anticipation  of  this  meeting  with  him  now. 
They  recalled  his  departure  when  Barry  Whalen  had  said, 
"God,  how  he  hates  us."  He  was  not  likely  to  hate  them 
less,  when  they  proved  that  Fellowes  and  Krool  had  be- 
trayed him  and  them  all.  They  had  a  wholesome  fear 
of  him  in  more  senses  than  one,  because,  during  the  past 
few  years,  while  Wallstein's  health  was  bad,  Byng's  posi- 
tion had  become  more  powerful  financially,  and  he  could 
ruin  any  one  of  them,  if  he  chose.  A  man  like  Byng 
in  "going  large"  might  do  the  Samson  business.  Besides, 
he  had  grown  strangely  uncertain  in  his  temper  of  late, 
and,  as  Barry  Whalen  had  said,  "It  isn't  good  to  trouble 
a  wounded  bull  in  the  ring." 

They  had  him  on  the  hip  in  one  way  through  the  ex- 
posure of  Krool,  but  they  were  all  more  or  less  dependent 
on  his  financial  movements.  They  were  all  enraged  at 
Byng  because  he  had  disregarded  all  warnings  regarding 
Krool;  but  what  could  they  do?  Instinctively  they 
turned  now  to  Stafford,  whose  reputation  for  brains  and 
diplomacy  was  so  great  and  whose  friendship  with  Byng 
was  so  close. 

Stafford  had  come  to-day  for  two  reasons:  to  do  what 
he  could  to  help  Byng — for  the  last  time;  and  to  say  to 
Byng  that  they  could  not  travel  together  to  South  Africa. 
To  make  the  long  journey  with  him  was  beyond  his  en- 
durance. He  must  put  the  world  between  Rudyard  and 
himself;  he  must  efface  all  companionship.  With  this 
307 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

last  act,  begotten  of  the  blind  confidence  Rudyard  had 
in  him,  their  intercourse  must  cease  forever.  This  would 
be  easy  enough  in  South  Africa.  Once  at  the  Front,  it 
was  as  sure  as  anything  on  earth  that  they  would  never 
meet  again.  It  was  torture  to  meet  him,  and  the  day  of 
the  inquest,  when  Byng  had  come  to  his  rooms  after  his 
interview  with  Lady  Tynemouth  and  Mr.  Mappin,  he 
had  been  tried  beyond  endurance. 

"Shall  we  have  Krool  in  without  Byng's  permission? 
Is  it  wise?"  asked  Wallstein  again.  He  looked  at  Staf- 
ford, and  Stafford  instantly  replied: 

"It  would  be  well  to  see  Krool,  I  think.  Your  action 
could  then  be  decided  by  Krool's  attitude  and  what  he 
says." 

Barry  Whalen  rang  the  bell,  and  the  footman  came. 
After  a  brief  waiting  Krool  entered  the  room  with  irritat- 
ing deliberation  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

He  looked  at  no  one,  but  stood  contemplating  space 
with  a  composure  which  made  Barry  Whalen  almost  jump 
from  his  seat  in  rage. 

"Come  a  little  closer,"  said  Wallstein  in  a  soothing 
voice,  but  so  Wallstein  would  have  spoken  to  a  man  he 
was  about  to  disembowel. 

Krool  came  nearer,  and  now  he  looked  round  at  them 
all  slowly  and  inquiringly.  As  no  one  spoke  for  a  mo- 
ment he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"If  you  shrug  your  shoulders  again,  damn  you,  I'll 
sjambok  you  here  as  Kruger  did  at  Vleifontein,"  said 
Barry  Whalen  in  a  low,  angry  voice.  "You've  been  too 
long  without  the  sjambok." 

"This  is  not  the  Vaal,  it  is  Englan',"  answered  Krool, 
huskily.  ' '  The  Law — here !' ' 

"Zo  you  t'ink  ze  law  of  England  would  help  you — eh?" 
asked  Sobieski,  with  a  cruel  leer,  relapsing  into  his  natural 
vernacular. 

"I  mean  what  I  say,  Krool,"  interposed  Barry  Whalen, 
fiercely,  motioning  Sobieski  to  silence.  "I  will  sjambok 
308 


KROOL 

you  till  you  can't  move,  here  in  England,  here  in  this 
house,  if  you  shrug  your  shoulders  again,  or  lift  an  eye- 
brow, or  do  one  damned  impudent  thing." 

He  got  up  and  rang  a  bell.  A  footman  appeared. 
"There  is  a  rhinoceros-hide  whip,  on  the  wall  of  Mr. 
Byng's  study.  Bring  it  here,"  he  said,  quietly,  but  with 
suppressed  passion. 

"Don't  be  crazy,  Whalen,"  said  Wallstein,  but  with  no 
great  force,  for  he  would  richly  have  enjoyed  seeing  the 
spy  and  traitor  under  the  whip.  Stafford  regarded  the 
scene  with  detached,  yet  deep  and  melancholy  interest. 

While  they  waited,  Krool  seemed  to  shrink  a  little; 
but  as  he  watched  like  some  animal  at  bay,  Stafford 
noticed  that  his  face  became  venomous  and  paler,  and 
some  sinister  intention  showed  in  his  eyes. 

The  whip  was  brought  and  laid  upon  the  table  beside 
Barry  Whalen,  and  the  footman  disappeared,  looking 
curiously  at  the  group  and  at  Krool. 

Barry  Whalen 's  fingers  closed  on  the  whip,  and  now  a 
look  of  fear  crept  over  Krool's  face.  If  there  was  one 
thing  calculated  to  stir  with  fear  the  Hottentot  blood  in 
him,  it  was  the  sight  of  the  sjambok.  He  had  native 
tendencies  and  predispositions  out  of  proportion  to  the 
native  blood  in  him — maybe  because  he  had  ever  been 
treated  more  like  a  native  than  a  white  man  by  his  Boer 
masters  in  the  past. 

As  Stafford  viewed  the  scene,  it  suddenly  came  home  to 
him  how  strange  was  this  occurrence  in  Park  Lane.  It 
was  medieval,  it  belonged  to  some  land  unslaked  of  bar- 
barism. He  realized  all  at  once  how  little  these  men 
around  him  represented  the  land  in  which  they  were 
living,  and  how  much  they  were  part  of  the  far-off  land 
which  was  now  in  the  throes  of  war. 

To  these  men  this  was  in  one  sense  an  alien  country. 

Through  the  dulled  noises  of  London  there  came  to  their 

ears  the  click  of  the  wheels  of  a  cape-wagon,  the  crack  of 

the  Kaffir's  whip,  the  creak  of  the  disselboom.      They 

309 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

followed  the  spoor  of  a  company  of  elephants  in  the  East 
country,  they  watched  through  the  November  mist  the 
blesbok  flying  across  the  veld,  a  herd  of  quaggas  taking 
cover  with  the  rheebok,  or  a  cloud  of  locusts  sailing  out  of 
the  sun  to  devastate  the  green  lands.  Through  the  smoky 
smell  of  London  there  came  to  them  the  scent  of  the  wat- 
tle, the  stinging  odour  of  ten  thousand  cattle,  the  reek  of 
a  native  kraal,  the  sharp  sweetness  of  orange  groves,  the 
aromatic  air  of  the  karoo,  laden  with  the  breath  of  a 
thousand  wild  herbs.  Through  the  drizzle  of  the  autumn 
rain  they  heard  the  wild  thunderbolt  tear  the  trees  from 
earthly  moorings.  In  their  eyes  was  the  livid  light- 
ning that  searched  in  spasms  of  anger  for  its  prey,  while 
there  swept  over  the  brown,  aching  veld  the  flood  which 
filled  the  spruits,  which  made  the  rivers  seas,  and  ploughed 
fresh  channels  through  the  soil.  The  luxury  of  this  room, 
with  its  shining  mahogany  tables,  its  tapestried  walls, 
its  rare  fireplace  and  massive  overmantel  brought  from 
Italy,  its  exquisite  stained-glass  windows,  was  only  part 
of  a  play  they  were  acting;  it  was  not  their  real  life. 

And  now  there  was  not  one  of  them  that  saw  anything 
incongruous  in  the  whip  of  rhinoceros-hide  lying  on  the 
table,  or  clinched  in  Barry  Whalen's  hand.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  gave  them  a  sense  of  supreme  naturalness.  They 
had  lived  in  a  land  where  the  sjambok  was  the  symbol 
of  progress.  It  represented  the  forward  movement  of 
civilization  in  the  wilderness.  It  was  the  vierkleur  of 
the  pioneer,  without  which  the  long  train  of  cape- 
wagons,  with  the  oxen  in  longer  coils  of  effort,  would 
never  have  advanced;  without  which  the  Kaffir  and  the 
Hottentot  would  have  sacrificed  every  act  of  civilization. 
It  prevented  crime,  it  punished  crime,  it  took  the  place 
of  the  bowie-knife  and  the  derringer  of  that  other  civiliza- 
tion beyond  the  Mississippi;  it  was  the  lock  to  the  door 
in  the  wild  places,  the  open  sesame  to  the  territories  where 
native  chiefs  ruled  communal  tribes  by  playing  tyrant 
to  the  commune.  It  was  the  rod  of  Aaron  staying  the 
310 


KROOL 

plague  of  barbarism.  It  was  the  sceptre  of  the  veld. 
It  drew  blood,  it  ate  human  flesh,  it  secured  order  where 
there  was  no  law,  and'  it  did  the  work  of  prison  and 
penitentiary.  It  was  the  symbol  of  authority  in  the 
wilderness. 

It  was  race. 

Stafford  was  the  only  man  present  who  saw  anything 
incongruous  in  the  scene,  and  yet  his  travels  in  the  East, 
his  year  in  Persia,  Tibet  and  Afghanistan,  had  made 
him  understand  things  not  revealed  to  the  wise  and  pru- 
dent of  European  domains.  With  Krool  before  them, 
who  was  of  £he  veld  and  the  karoo,  whose  natural  habitat 
was  but  a  cross  between  a  kraal  and  the  stoep  of  a 
dopper's  home,  these  men  were  instantly  transported  to 
the  land  where  their  hearts  were  in  spite  of  all,  though 
the  flesh-pots  of  the  West  End  of  London  had  turned  them 
into  by-paths  for  a  while.  The  skin  had  been  scratched 
by  Krool's  insolence  and  the  knowledge  of  his  treachery, 
and  the  Tartar  showed — the  sjambok  his  scimitar. 

In  spite  of  himself,  Stafford  was  affected  by  it  all. 
He  understood.  This  was  not  London;  the  scene  had 
shifted  to  Potchefstroom  or  Middleburg,  and  Krool  was 
transformed  too.  The  sjambok  had,  like  a  wizard's  wand, 
as  it  were,  lifted  him  away  from  England  to  spaces  where 
he  watched  from  the  grey  rock  of  a  kopje  for  the  glint  of 
an  assegai  or  the  red  of  a  Rooinek's  tunic:  and  he  had 
done  both  in  his  day. 

"We've  got  you  at  last,  Krool,"  said  Wallstein.  "We 
have  been  some  time  at  it,  but  it's  a  long  lane  that  has 
no  turning,  and  we  have  you. — ' 

"Like  that — like  that,  jackal!"  interjected  Barry  Wha- 
len,  opening  and  shutting  his  lean  fingers  with  a  gesture 
of  savage  possession. 

"What?"  asked  Krool,  with  a  malevolent  thrust  for- 
ward of  his  head.  "What?" 

"You  betrayed  us  to  Kruger,"  answered  Wallstein, 
holding  the  papers.  "We  have  here  the  proof  at  last." 
21  3" 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"You  betrayed  England  and  her  secrets,  and  yet  you 
think  that  the  English  law  would  protect  you  against 
this,"  said  Barry  Whalen,  harshly,  handling  the  sjambok. 

"What  I  betray?"  Krool  asked  again.     "What  I  tell?" 

With  great  deliberation  Wallstein  explained. 

"Where  proof?"  Krool  asked,  doggedly. 

"We  have  just  enough  to  hang  you,"  said  Wallstein, 
grimly,  and  lifted  and  showed  the  papers  Barry  Whalen 
had  brought. 

An  insolent  smile  crossed  Krool's  face. 

"You  find  out  too  late.  That  Fellowes  is  dead.  So 
much  you  get,  but  the  work  is  done.  It  not  matter  now. 
It  is  all  done — altogether.  Oom  Paul  speaks  now,  and 
everything  is  his — from  the  Cape  to  the  Zambesi,  every- 
thing his.  It  is  too  late.  What  can  to  do?"  Sudden- 
ly ferocity  showed  in  his  face.  "It  come  at  last.  It  is 
the  end  of  the  English  both  sides  the  Vaal.  They  will 
go  down  like  wild  hogs  into  the  sea  with  Joubert  and 
Botha  behind  them.  It  is  the  day  of  Oom  Paul  and 
Christ.  The  God  of  Israel  gives  to  his  own  the  tents 
of  the  Rooineks." 

In  spite  of  the  fierce  passion  of  the  man,  who  had  sud- 
denly disclosed  a  side  of  his  nature  hitherto  hidden — the 
savage  piety  of  the  dopper  Boer  impregnated  with  stereo- 
typed missionary  phrasing,  Ian  Stafford  almost  laughed 
outright.  In  the  presence  of  Jews  like  Sobieski  it  seemed 
so  droll  that  this  half-caste  should  talk  about  the  God  of 
Israel,  and  link  Oom  Paul's  name  with  that  of  Christ  the 
great  liberator  as  partners  in  triumph. 

In  all  the  years  Krool  had  been  in  England  he  had  never 
been  inside  a  place  of  worship  or  given  any  sign  of  that 
fanaticism  which,  all  at  once,  he  made  manifest.  He 
had  seemed  a  pagan  to  all  of  his  class,  had  acted  as  a 
pagan. 

Barry  Whalen,  as  well  as  Ian  Stafford,  saw  the  humour 
of  the  situation,  while  they  were  both  confounded  by  the 
courageous  malice  of  the  traitor.  It  came  to  Barry's 
312 


KROOL 

mind  at  the  moment,  as  it  came  to  Ian  Stafford's,  that 
Krool  had  some  card  to  play  which  would,  to  his  mind, 
serve  him  well;  and,  by  instinct,  both  found  the  right 
clue.  Barry's  anger  became  uneasiness,  and  Stafford's 
interest  turned  to  anxiety. 

There  was  an  instant's  pause  after  Krool's  words,  and 
then  Wolff  the  silent,  gone  wild,  caught  the  sjambok 
from  the  hands  of  Barry  Whalen.  He  made  a  movement 
towards  Krool,  who  again  suddenly  shrank,  as  he  would 
not  have  shrunk  from  a  weapon  of  steel. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  cried  Fleming,  seizing  the  arm  of 
his  friend.  "One  minute.  There's  something  more." 
Turning  to  Wallstein,  he  said,  "  If  Krool  consents  to  leave 
England  at  once  for  South  Africa,  let  him  go.  Is  it  agreed  ? 
He  must  either  be  dealt  with  adequately,  or  get  out.  Is 
it  agreed?" 

"I  do  what  I  like,"  said  Krool,  with  a  snarl,  in  which 
his  teeth  showed  glassily  against  his  drawn  lips.  "No 
one  make  me  do  what  I  not  want." 

"The  Baas — you  have  forgotten  him,"  said  Wallstein. 

A  look  combined  of  cunning,  fear  and  servility  crossed 
Krool's  face,  but  he  said,  morosely: 

"The  Baas — I  will  do  what  I  like." 

There  was  a  singular  defiance  and  meaning  in  his  tone, 
and  the  moment  seemed  critical,  for  Barry  Whalen's  face 
was  distorted  with  fury.  Stafford  suddenly  stooped  and 
whispered  a  word  in  Wallstein's  ear,  and  then  said: 

"Gentlemen,  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  should  like  a  few 
words  with  Krool  before  Mr.  Byng  comes.  I  think  per- 
haps Krool  will  see  the  best  course  to  pursue  when  we 
have  talked  together.  In  one  sense  it  is  none  of  my  busi- 
ness, in  another  sense  it  is  everybody's  business.  A  few 
minutes,  if  you  please,  gentlemen."  There  was  some- 
tiling  almost  authoritative  in  his  tone. 

"For  Byng's  sake — his  wife — you  understand,"  was 
all  Stafford  had  said  under  his  breath,  but  it  was  an 
illumination  to  Wallstein,  who  whispered  to  Stafford, 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"Yes,  that's  it.  Krool  holds  some  card,  and  he'll  play 
it  now." 

By  his  glance  and  by  his  word  of  assent,  Wallstein  set 
the  cue  for  the  rest,  and  they  all  got  up  and  went  slowly 
into  the  other  room.  Barry  Whalen  was  about  to  take 
the  sjambok,  but  Stafford  laid  his  hand  upon  it,  and  Barry 
and  he  exchanged  a  look  of  understanding. 

"Stafford's  a  little  bit  of  us  in  a  way,"  said  Barry  in  a 
whisper  to  Wallstein  as  they  left  the  room.  "He  knows, 
too,  what  a  sjambok  's  worth  in  Krool's  eyes." 

When  the  two  were  left  alone,  Stafford  slowly  seated 
himself,  and  his  fingers  played  idly  with  the  sjambok. 

"You  say  you  will  do  what  you  like,  in  spite  of  the 
Baas?"  he  asked,  in  a  low,  even  tone. 

"If  the  Baas  hurt  me,  I  will  hurt.  If  anybody  hurt 
me,  I  will  hurt." 

"You  will  hurt  the  Baas,  eh?  I  thought  he  saved  your 
life  on  the  Limpopo." 

A  flush  stole  across  Krool's  face,  and  when  it  passed 
again  he  was  paler  than  before.  "  I  have  save  the  Baas," 
he  answered,  sullenly. 

"From  what?" 

"From  you." 

With  a  powerful  effort,  Stafford  controlled  himself. 
He  dreaded  what  was  now  to  be  said,  but  he  felt  inevi- 
tably what  it  was. 

"How — from  me?" 

"  If  that  Fellowes'  letter  come  into  his  hands  first,  yours 
would  not  matter.  She  would  not  go  with  you." 

Stafford  had  far  greater  difficulty  in  staying  his  hand 
than  had  Barry  Whalen,  for  the  sjambok  seemed  the  only 
reply  to  the  dark  suggestion.  He  realized  how,  like  the 
ostrich,  he  had  thrust  his  head  into  the  sand,  imagining 
that  no  one  knew  what  was  between  himself  and  Jasmine. 
Yet  here  was  one  who  knew,  here  was  one  who  had,  for 
whatever  purpose,  precipitated  a  crisis  with  Fellowes  to 
prevent  a  crisis  with  himself. 


KROOL 

Suddenly  Stafford  thought  of  an  awful  possibility.  He 
fastened  the  gloomy  eyes  of  the  man  before  him,  that  he 
might  be  able  to  see  any  stir  of  emotion,  and  said:  "It 
did  not  come  out  as  you  expected?" 

' '  Altogether — yes. ' ' 

"You  wished  to  part  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Byng.  That  did 
not  happen." 

"The  Baas  is  going  to  South  Africa." 

"And  Mr.  Fellowes?" 

"He  went  like  I  expec'." 

"He  died — heart  failure,  eh?" 

A  look  of  contempt,  malevolence,  and  secret  reflection 
came  into  Krool's  face.  "He  was  kill,"  he  said. 

"Who  killed  him?" 

Krool  was  about  to  shrug  his  shoulders,  but  his  glance 
fell  on  the  sjambok,  and  he  made  an  ugly  gesture  with 
his  lean  fingers.  "There  was  yourself.  He  had  hurt 
you — you  went  to  him.  .  .  .  Good!  There  was  the  Baas, 
he  went  to  him.  The  dead  man  had  hurt  him.  .  .  .  Good !" 

Stafford  interrupted  him  by  an  exclamation.  "What's 
that  you  say — the  Baas  went  to  Mr.  Fellowes?" 

"As  I  tell  the  vrouw,  Mrs.  Byng,  when  she  say  me  go 
from  the  house  to-day — I  say  I  will  go  when  the  Baas 
send  me." 

"The  Baas  went  to  Mr.  Fellowes — when?" 

"Two  hours  before  you  go,  and  one  hour  before  the 
vrouw,  she  go." 

Like  some  animal  looking  out  of  a  jungle,  so  Krool's 
eyes  glowed  from  beneath  his  heavy  eyebrows,  as  he 
drawled  out  the  words. 

"The  Baas  went — you  saw  him?" 

"With  my  own  eyes." 

"How  long  was  he  there?" 

"Ten  minutes." 

"Mrs.  Byng — you  saw  her  go  in?" 

"And  also  come  out." 

"And  me — you  followed  me — you  saw  me,  also?" 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

•'I  saw  all  that  come,  all  that  go  in  to  him." 

With  a  swift  mind  Stafford  saw  his  advantage — the 
one  chance,  the  one  card  he  could  play,  the  one  move  he 
could  make  in  checkmate,  if,  and  when,  necessary.  "So 
you  saw  all  that  came  and  went.  And  you  came  and  went 
yourself!" 

His  eyes  were  hard  and  bright  as  he  held  Krool's,  and 
there  was  a  sinister  smile  on  his  lips. 

"You  know  I  come  and  go — you  say  me  that?"  said 
Krool,  with  a  sudden  look  of  vague  fear  and  surprise.  He 
had  not  foreseen  this. 

"You  accuse  yourself.  You  saw  this  person  and  that 
go  out,  and  you  think  to  hold  them  in  your  dirty  clutches ; 
but  you  had  more  reason  than  any  for  killing  Mr.  Fel- 
lowes." 

"What?"  asked  Krool,  furtively. 

"You  hated  him  because  he  was  a  traitor  like  yourself. 
You  hated  him  because  he  had  hurt  the  Baas." 

"That  is  true  altogether,  but — ' 

"You  need  not  explain.  If  any  one  killed  Mr.  Fellowes, 
why  not  you?  You  came  and  went  from  his  rooms,  too." 

Krool's  face  was  now  yellowish  pale.  ."Not  me  ...  it 
was  not  me." 

"You  would  run  a  worse  chance  than  any  one.  Your 
character  would  damn  you — a  partner  with  him  in  crime. 
What  jury  in  the  world  but  would  convict  you  on  your 
own  evidence?  Besides,  you  knew — 

He  paused  to  deliver  a  blow  on  the  barest  chance.  It 
was  an  insidious  challenge  which,  if  it  failed,  might  do 
more  harm  to  others,  might  do  great  harm,  but  he  plunged. 
"You  knew  about  the  needle." 

Krool  was  cowed  and  silent.  On  a  venture  Stafford  had 
struck  straight  home. 

"You  knew  that  Mr.  Fellowes  had  stolen  the  needle 
from  Mr.  Mappin  at  Glencader,"  he  added. 

"How  you  know  that?"  asked  Krool,  in  a  husky,  ragged 
voice. 

316 


KROOL 

"I  saw  him  steal  it — and  you?" 

"No.     He  tell  me." 

"What  did  he  mean  to  do  with  it?" 

A  look  came  into  Krool's  eyes,  malevolent  and  barbaric. 

"Not  to  kill  himself,"  he  reflected.  "There  is  always 
some  one  a  man  or  a  woman  want  kill." 

There  was  a  hideous  commonplaceness  in  the  tone 
which  struck  a  chill  to  Stafford's  heart. 

"No  doubt  there  is  always  some  one  you  want  to  kill. 
Now  listen,  Krool.  You  think  you've  got  a  hold  over  me 
— over  Mrs.  Byng.  You  threaten.  Well,  I  have  passed 
through  the  fire  of  the  coroner's  inquest.  I  have  nothing 
to  fear.  You  have.  I  saw  you  in  the  street  as  you 
watched.  You  came  behind  me — " 

He  remembered  now  the  footsteps  that  paused  when  he 
did,  the  figure  behind  his  in  the  dark,  as  he  watched  for 
Jasmine  to  come  out  from  Fellowes'  rooms,  and  he  de- 
termined to  plunge  once  more. 

"I  recognized  you,  and  I  saw  you  in  the  Strand  just 
before  that.  I  did  not  speak  at  the  inquest,  because  I 
wanted  no  scandal.  If  I  had  spoken,  you  would  have  been 
arrested.  Whatever  happened  your  chances  were  worse 
than  those  of  any  one.  You  can't  frighten  me,  or  my 
friends  in  there,  or  the  Baas,  or  Mrs.  Byng.  Look  after 
your  own  skin.  You  are  the  vile  scum  of  the  earth," — he 
determined  to  take  a  strong  line  now,  since  he  had  made  a 
powerful  impression  on  the  creature  before  him — "and 
you  will  do  what  the  Baas  likes,  not  what  you  like.  He 
saved  your  life.  Bad  as  you  are,  the  Baas  is  your  Baas 
for  ever  and  ever,  and  what  he  wants  to  do  with  you  he 
will  do.  When  his  eyes  look  into  yours,  you  will  think 
the  lightning  speaks.  You  are  his  slave.  If  he  hates 
you,  you  will  die;  if  he  curses  you,  you  will  wither." 

He  played  upon  the  superstitious  element,  the  native 
strain  again.  It  was  deeper  in  Krool  than  anything  else. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  defy  them?"  Stafford  went  on, 
jerking  a  finger  towards  the  other  room.  "They  are  from 

3*7 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

the  veld.  They  will  have  you  as  sure  as  the  crack  of  a 
whip.  This  is  England,  but  they  are  from  the  veld.  On 
the  veld  you  know  what  they  would  do  to  you.  If  you 
speak  against  the  Baas,  it  is  bad  for  you;  if  you  speak 
against  the  Baas'  vrouw  it  will  be  ten  times  worse.  Do 
you  hear?" 

There  was  a  strange  silence,  in  which  Stafford  could  feel 
Krool's  soul  struggling  in  the  dark,  as  it  were — a  struggle 
as  of  black  spirits  in  the  grey  dawn. 

"  I  wait  the  Baas  speak,"  Krool  said  at  last,  with  a  shiver. 

There  was  no  time  for  Stafford  to  answer.  Wallstein 
entered  the  room  hurriedly.  "Byng  has  come.  He  has 
been  told  about  him,"  he  said  in  French  to  Stafford,  and 
jerking  his  head  towards  Krool. 

Stafford  rose.  "  It's  all  right,"  he  answered  in  the  same 
language.  "I  think  things  will  be  safe  now.  He  has  a 
wholesome  fear  of  the  Baas." 

He  turned  to  Krool.  "If  you  say  to  the  Baas  what 
you  have  said  to  me  about  Mr.  Fellowes  or  about  the 
Baas's  vrouw,  you  will  have  a  bad  time.  You  will  think 
that  wild  hawks  are  picking  out  your  vitals.  If  you  have 
sense,  you  will  do  what  I  tell  you." 

Krool's  eyes  were  on  the  door  through  which  Wallstein 
had  come.  His  gaze  was  fixed  and  tortured.  Stafford 
had  suddenly  roused  in  him  some  strange  superstitious 
element.  He  was  like  a  creature  of  a  lower  order  awaiting 
the  approach  of  the  controlling  power.  It  was,  however, 
the  door  behind  him  which  opened,  and  he  gave  a  start 
of  surprise  and  terror.  He  knew  who  it  was.  He  did  not 
turn  round,  but  his  head  bent  forward,  as  though  he  would 
take  a  blow  from  behind,  and  his  eyes  almost  closed. 
Stafford  saw  with  a  curious  meticulousness  the  long  eye- 
lashes touch  the  grey  cheek. 

"There's  no  fight  in  him  now,"  he  said  to  Byng  in 
French.  "He  was  getting  nasty,  but  I've  got  him  in 
order.  He  knows  too  much.  Remember  that,  Byng." 

Byng's  look  was  as  that  of  a  man  who  had  passed 


KROOL 

through  some  chamber  of  torture,  but  the  flabbiness  had 
gone  suddenly  from  his  face,  and  even  from  his  figure, 
though  heavy  lines  had  gathered  round  the  mouth  and 
scarred  the  forehead.  He  looked  worn  and  much  thinner, 
but  there  was  a  look  in  his  eyes  which  Stafford  had  never 
seen  there — a  new  look  of  deeper  seeing,  of  revelation,  of 
realization.  With  all  his  ability  and  force,  Byng  had  been 
always  much  of  a  boy,  so  little  at  one  with  the  hidden 
things — the  springs  of  human  conduct,  the  contradictions 
of  human  nature,  the  worst  in  the  best  of  us,  the  forces 
that  emerge  without  warning  in  all  human  beings,  to  send 
them  on  untoward  courses  and  at  sharp  tangents  to  all 
the  habits  of  their  existence  and  their  character.  In  a 
real  sense  he  had  been  very  primitive,  very  objective  in 
all  he  thought  and  said  and  did.  With  imagination,  and 
a  sensitive  organization  out  of  keeping  with  his  immense 
physique,  it  was  still  only  a  visualizing  sense  which  he 
had,  only  a  thing  that  belongs  to  races  such  as  those  of 
which  Krool  had  come. 

A  few  days  of  continuous  suffering  begotten  by  a  cata- 
clysm, which  had  rent  asunder  walls  of  life  enclosing  vistas 
he  had  never  before  seen ;  these  had  transformed  him.  Pain 
had  given  him  dignity  of  a  savage  kind,  a  grim  quiet  which 
belonged  to  conflict  and  betokened  grimmer  purpose.  In 
the  eyes  was  the  darkness  of  the  well  of  despair;  but  at 
his  lips  was  iron  resolution. 

In  reply  to  Stafford  he  said  quietly:  "All  right,  I  under- 
stand. I  know  how  to  deal  with  Krool." 

As  Stafford  withdrew,  Byng  came  slowly  down  the  room 
till  he  stood  at  the  end  of  the  table  opposite  to  Krool. 

Standing  there,  he  looked  at  the  Boer  with  hard  eyes. 

"I  know  all,  Krool,"  he  said.  "You  sold  me  and  my 
country — you  tried  to  sell  me  and  my  country  to  Oom 
Paul.  You  dog,  that  I  snatched  from  the  tiger  death, 
not  once  but  twice." 

"It  is  no  good.  I  am  a  Hottentot.  I  am  for  the 
Boer,  for  Oom  Paul.  I  would  have  die  for  you,  but — " 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

"  But  when  the  chance  came  to  betray  the  thing  I  cared 
for  more  than  I  would  twenty  lives — my  country — you 
tried  to  sell  me  and  all  who  worked  with  me." 

"It  would  be  same  to  you  if  the  English  go  from 
the  Vaal,"  said  the  half-caste,  huskily,  not  looking  into 
the  eyes  fixed  on  him.  "But  it  matter  to  me  that  the 
Boer  keep  all  for  himself  what  he  got  for  himself.  I  am 
half  Boer.  That  is  why." 

"You  defend  it — tell  me,  you  defend  it?" 

There  was  that  in  the  voice,  some  terrible  thing,  which 
drew  Krool's  eyes  in  spite  of  liimself,  and  he  met  a  look 
of  fire  and  wrath. 

"I  tell  why.  If  it  was  bad,  it  was  bad.  But  I  tell 
why,  that  is  all.  If  it  is  not  good,  it  is  bad,  and  hell  is 
for  the  bad;  but  I  tell  why." 

"You  got  money  from  Oom  Paul  for  the  man — Fel- 
lowes?"  It  was  hard  for  him  to  utter  the  name. 

Krool  nodded. 

"Every  year — much?" 

Again  Krool  nodded. 

"And  for  yourself — how  much?" 

"Nothing  for  myself;  no  money,  Baas." 

"Only  Oom  Paul's  love!" 

Krool  nodded  again. 

"But  Oom  Paul  flayed  you  at  Vleifontein;  tied  you  up 
and  skinned  you  with  a  sjambok.  .  .  .  That  didn't  matter, 
eh?  And  you  went  on  loving  him.  I  never  touched  you 
in  all  the  years.  I  gave  you  your  life  twice.  I  gave 
you  good  money.  I  kept  you  in  luxury — you  that  fed  in 
the  cattle-kraal;  you  that  had  mealies  to  eat  and  a  shred 
of  biltong  when  you  could  steal  it;  you  that  ate  a 
steinbok  raw  on  the  Vaal,  you  were  so  wild  for  meat 
...  I  took  you  out  of  that,  and  gave  you  this." 

He  waved  an  arm  round  the  room,  and  went  on:  "You 

come  in  and  go  out  of  my  room,  you  sleep  in  the  same  cart 

with  me,  you  eat  out  of  the  same  dish  on  trek,  and  yet 

you  do  the  Judas  trick.     Slim — god  of  gods,  how  slim! 

320 


KROOL 

You  are  the  snake  that  crawls  in  the  slime.  It's  the  native 
in  you,  I  suppose.  .  .  .  But  see,  I  mean  to  do  to  you  as 
Oom  Paul  did.  It's  the  only  thing  you  understand.  It's 
the  way  to  make  you  straight  and  true,  my  sweet  Krool." 
Still  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  Krool's  eyes,  his  hand 
reached  out  and  slowly  took  the  sjambok  from  the  table. 
He  ran  the  cruel  thing  through  his  fingers  as  does  a  prison 
expert  the  cat-o'-nine-tails  before  laying  on  the  lashes  of 
penalty.  Into  Krool's  eyes  a  terror  crept  which  never 
had  been  there  in  the  old  days  on  the  veld  when  Oom 
Paul  had  flayed  him.  This  was  not  the  veld,  and  he  was 
no  longer  the  veld-dweller  with  skin  like  the  rhinoceros, 
all  leather  and  bone  and  endurance.  And  this  was  not 
Oom  Paul,  but  one  whom  he  had  betrayed,  whose  wife  he 
had  sought  to  ruin,  whose  subordinate  he  had  turned  into 
a  traitor.  Oom  Paul  had  been  a  mere  savage  master; 
but  here  was  a  master  whose  very  tongue  could  excoriate 
him  like  Oom  Paul's  sjambok;  whom,  at  bottom,  he  loved 
in  his  way  as  he  had  never  loved  anything;  whom  he  had 
betrayed,  not  realizing  the  hideous  nature  of  his  deed; 
having  argued  that  it  was  against  England  his  treachery 
was  directed,  and  that  was  a  virtue  in  his  eyes ;  not  seeing 
what  direct  injury  could  come  to  Byng  through  it.  He 
had  not  seen,  he  had  not  understood,  he  was  still  un- 
civilized; he  had  only  in  his  veins  the  morality  of  the 
native,  and  he  had  tried  to  ruin  his  master's  wife  for  his 
master's  sake;  and  when  he  had  finished  with  Fellowes 
as  a  traitor,  he  was  ready  to  ruin  his  confederate — to 
kill  him — perhaps  did  kill  him! 

" It's  the  only  way  to  deal  with  you,  Hottentot  dog!" 
The  look  in  Krool's  eyes  only  increased  Byng's  lust  of 
punishment.     What  else  was  there  to  do?    Without  ter- 
rible  scandal  there  was  no  other  way  to  punish  the 
traitor,  but  if  there  had  been  another  way  he  would 
still  have  done  this.     This  Krool   understood;    behind 
every  command  the  Baas  had  ever  given  him  this  thing 
lay — the  sjambok,  the  natural  engine  of  authority. 
321 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

Suddenly  Byng  said  with  a  voice  of  almost  guttural 
anger:  "You  dropped  that  letter  on  my  bedroom  floor — 
that  letter,  you  understand?  .  .  .  Speak." 

"I  did  it,  Baas." 

Byng  was  transformed.  Slowly  he  laid  down  the  sjam- 
bok, and  as  slowly  took  off  his  coat,  his  eyes  meanwhile 
fastening  those  of  the  wretched  man  before  him.  Then 
he  took  up  the  sjambok  again. 

"You  know  what  I  am  going  to  do  with  you?" 

"Yes,  Baas." 

It  never  occurred  to  Byng  that  Krool  would  resist;  it 
did  not  occur  to  Krool  that  he  could  resist.  Byng  was 
the  Baas,  who  at  that  moment  was  the  Power  Immeasur- 
able. There  was  only  one  thing  to  do — to  obey. 

"You  were  told  to  leave  my  house  by  Mrs.  Byng,  and 
you  did  not  go." 

"She  was  not  my  Baas." 

"You  would  have  done  her  harm,  if  you  could?" 

"So,  Baas." 

With  a  low  cry  Byng  ran  forward,  the  sjambok  swung 
through  the  air,  and  the  terrible  whip  descended  on  the 
crouching  half-caste. 

Krool  gave  one  cry  and  fell  back  a  little,  but  he  made 
no  attempt  to  resist. 

Suddenly  Byng  went  to  a  window  and  threw  it  open. 

"You  can  jump  from  there  or  take  the  sjambok. 
Which?"  he  said  with  a  passion  not  that  of  a  man  wholly 
sane.  "Which?" 

Krool's  wild,  sullen,  trembling  look  sought  the  window, 
but  he  had  no  heart  for  that  enterprise — thirty  feet  to 
the  pavement  below. 

"The  sjambok,  Baas,"  he  said. 

Once  again  Byng  moved  forward  on  him,  and  once 
again  Krool's  cry  rang  out,  but  not  so  loud.  It  was  like 
that  of  an  animal  in  torture. 

In  the  next  room,  Wallstein  and  Stafford  and  the  others 
heard  it,  and  understood.  Whispering  together  they  lis- 
322 


KROOL 

tened,  and  Stafford  shrank  away  to  the  far  side  of  the 
room;  but  more  than  one  face  showed  pleasure  in  the 
sound  of  the  whip  and  the  moaning. 

It  went  on  and  on. 

Barry  Whalen,  however,  was  possessed  of  a  kind  of 
fear,  and  presently  his  face  became  troubled.  This 
punishment  was  terrible.  Byng  might  kill  the  man,  and 
all  would  be  as  bad  as  could  be.  Stafford  came  to  him. 

"You  had  better  go  in,"  he  said.  "We  ought  to  inter- 
vene. If  you  don't,  I  will.  Listen.  ..." 

It  was  a  strange  sound  to  hear  in  this  heart  of  civiliza- 
tion. It  belonged  to  the  barbaric  places  of  the  earth, 
where  there  was  no  law,  where  every  pioneer  was  his  own 
cadi. 

With  set  face  Barry  Whalen  entered  the  room.  Byng 
paused  for  an  instant  and  looked  at  him  with  burning, 
glazed  eyes  that  scarcely  realized  him. 

"Open  that  door,"  he  said,  presently,  and  Barry  Whalen 
opened  the  door  which  led  into  the  big  hall. 

"Open  all  down  to  the  street,"  Byng  said,  and  Barry 
Whalen  went  forward  quickly. 

Like  some  wild  beast  Krool  crouched  and  stumbled 
and  moaned  as  he  ran  down  the  staircase,  through  the 
outer  hall,  while  a  servant  with  scared  face  saw  Byng 
rain  savage  blows  upon  the  hated  figure. 

On  the  pavement  outside  the  house,  Krool  staggered, 
stumbled,  and  fell  down;  but  he  slowly  gathered  himself 
up,  and  turned  to  the  doorway,  where  Byng  stood  panting 
with  the  sjambok  in  his  hand. 

"Baas! — Baas!"  Krool  said  with  livid  face,  and  then 
he  crept  painfully  away  along  the  street  wall. 

A  policeman  crossed  the  road  with  a  questioning  frown 
and  the  apparent  purpose  of  causing  trouble,  but  Barry 
Whalen  whispered  in  his  ear,  and  told  him  to  call  that 
evening  and  he  would  hear  all  about  it.  Meanwhile  a 
five-pound  note  in  a  quick  palm  was  a  guarantee  of  good 
faith. 

323 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Presently  a  half-dozen  people  began  to  gather  near  the 
door,  but  the  benevolent  policeman  moved  them  on. 

At  the  top  of  the  staircase  Jasmine  met  her  husband. 
She  shivered  as  he  came  up  towards  her. 

"Will  you  come  to  me  when  you  have  finished  your 
business?"  she  said,  and  she  took  the  sjambok  gently 
from  his  hand. 

He  scarcely  realized  her.  He  was  in  a  dream;  but  he 
smiled  at  her,  and  nodded,  and  passed  on  to  where  the 
others  awaited  him. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

"THE  BATTLE  CRY  OF  FREEDOM" 

SLOWLY  Jasmine  returned  to  her  boudoir.  Laying 
the  sjambok  on  the  table  among  the  books  in  deli- 
cate bindings  and  the  bowls  of  flowers,  she  stood  and 
looked  at  it  with  confused  senses  for  a  long  time.  At 
last  a  wan  smile  stole  to  her  lips,  but  it  did  not  reach  her 
eyes.  They  remained  absorbed  and  searching,  and  were 
made  painfully  sad  by  the  wide,  dark  linejf  under  them. 
Her  fair  skin  was  fairer  than  ever,  but  it  was  delicately 
faded,  giving  her  a  look  of  pensiveness,  while  yet  there 
was  that  in  her  carriage  and  at  her  mouth  which  suggested 
strength  and  will  and  new  forces  at  work  in  her.  She 
carried  her  head,  weighted  by  its  splendour  of  golden  hair, 
as  an  Eastern  woman  carries  a  goulah  of  water.  There 
was  something  pathetic  yet  self-reliant  in  the  whole 
figure.  The  passion  slumbering  in  the  eyes,  however, 
might  at  any  moment  burst  forth  in  some  wild  relinquish- 
ment  of  control  and  self-restraint. 

"  He  did  what  I  should  have  liked  to  do,"  she  said  aloud. 
"We  are  not  so  different,  after  all.  He  is  primitive  at 
bottom,  and  so  am  I.  He  gets  carried  away  by  his  emo- 
tions, and  so  do  I." 

She  took  up  the  whip,  examined  it,  felt  its  weight,  and 
drew  it  with  a  swift  jerk  through  the  air. 

"I  did  not  even  shrink  when  Krool  came  stumbling 
down  the  stairs,  with  this  cutting  his  flesh,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "Somehow  it  all  seemed  natural  and  right. 
What  has  come  to  me?  Are  all  my  finer  senses  dead? 
Am  I  just  one  of  the  crude  human  things  who  lived  a 
325 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

million  years  ago,  and  who  lives  again  as  crude  as  those, 
with  only  the  outer  things  changed?  Then  I  wore  the 
skins  of  wild  animals,  and  now  I  do  the  same,  just  the 
same;  with  what  we  call  more  taste  perhaps,  because  we 
have  ceased  to  see  the  beauty  in  the  natural  thing." 

She  touched  the  little  band  of  grey  fur  at  the  sleeve 
of  her  clinging  velvet  gown.  "Just  a  little  distance  away 
—that  is  all." 

Suddenly  a  light  flashed  up  in  her  eyes,  and  her  face 
flushed  as  though  some  one  had  angered  her.  She  seized 
the  whip  again.  "Yes,  I  could  have  seen  him  whipped 
to  death  before  my  eyes — the  coward,  the  abject  coward. 
He  did  not  speak  for  me;  he  did  not  defend  me;  he  did 
not  deny.  He  let  Ian  think — death  was  too  kind  to 
him.  How  dared  he  hurt  me  so!  ...  Death  is  so-  easy  a 
way  out,  but  he  would  not  have  taken  it.  No,  no,  no, 
it  was  not  suicide;  some  one  killed  him.  He  could 
never  have  taken  his  own  life — never.  He  had  not  the 
courage.  ...  No;  he  died  of  poison  or  was  strangled.  Who 
did  it?  Who  did  it?  Was  it  Rudyard?  Was  it.  .  .  ? 
Oh,  it  wears  me  out — thinking,  thinking,  thinking!" 

She  sat  down  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  "I 
am  doomed — doomed,"  she  moaned.  "I  was  doomed 
from  the  start.  It  must  always  have  been  so,  whatever 
I  did.  I  would  do  it  again,  whatever  I  did;  I  know  I 
would  do  it  again,  being  what  I  was.  It  was  in  my 
veins,  in  my  blood  from  the  start,  from  the  very  first 
days  of  my  life." 

All  at  once  there  flashed  through  her  mind  again,  as 
on  that  night  so  many  centuries  ago,  when  she  had  slept 
the  last  sleep  of  her  life  as  it  was,  Swinburne's  lines  on 
Baudelaire: 

"There  is  no  help  for  these  things,  none  to  mend  and  none  to  mar; 
Not  all  our  songs,  oh,  friend,  can  make  death  clear 
Or  make  life  durable.  ..." 

" '  There  is  no  help  for  these  things,' "  she  repeated  with 
a  sigh  which  seemed  to  tear  her  heart  in  twain.     "All  gone 
326 


"BATTLE    CRY   OF    FREEDOM" 

—all.  What  is  there  left  to  do?  If  death  could  make 
it  better  for  any  one,  how  easy!  But  everything  would 
be  known — somehow  the  world  would  know,  and  every 
one  would  suffer  more.  Not  now — no,  not  now.  I  must 
live  on,  but  not  here.  I  must  go  away.  I  must  find 
a  place  to  go  where  Rudyard  will  not  come.  There  is 
no  place  so  far  but  it  is  not  far  enough.  I  am  twenty- 
five,  and  all  is  over — all  is  done  for  me.  I  have  nothing 
that  I  want  to  keep,  there  is  nothing  that  I  want  to  do 
except  to  go — to  go  and  to  be  alone.  Alone,  always  alone 
now.  It  is  either  that,  or  be  Jezebel,  or — " 

The  door  opened,  and  the  servant  brought  a  card  to 
her.  "His  Excellency,  the  Moravian  ambassador,"  the 
footman  said. 

"Monsieur  Mennaval?"  she  asked,  mechanically,  as 
though  scarcely  realizing  what  he  had  said. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  Mr.  Mennaval." 

"Please  say  I  am  indisposed,  and  am  sorry  I  cannot 
receive  him  to-day,"  she  said. 

"Very  good,  ma'am."  The  footman  turned  to  go, 
then  came  back. 

"Shall  I  tell  the  maid  you  want  her?"  he  asked,  re- 
spectfully. 

"No,  why  should  you?"  she  asked. 

"I  thought  you  looked  a  bit  queer,  ma'am,"  he  re- 
sponded, hastily.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am." 

She  rewarded  him  with  a  smile.  "Thank  you,  James, 
I  think  I  should  like  her  after  all.  Ask  her  to  come  at 
once." 

When  he  had  gone  she  leaned  back  and  shut  her  eyes. 
For  a  moment  she  was  perfectly  motionless,  then  she  sat 
up  again  and  looked  at  the  card  in  her  hand. 

"M.  Mennaval — M.  Mennaval,"  she  said,  with  a  note 
so  cynical  that  it  betrayed  more  than  her  previous  emo- 
tion, to  such  a  point  of  despair  her  mind  had  come. 

M.  Mennaval  had  played  his  part,  had  done  his  service, 
had  called  out  from  her  every  resource  of  coquetry  and 
22  327 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

lure;  and  with  wonderful  art  she  had  cajoled  him  till  he 
had  yielded  to  influence,  and  Ian  had  turned  the  key  in 
the  international  lock.  M.  Mennaval  had  been  used  with 
great  skill  to  help  the  man  who  was  now  gone  from  her 
forever,  whom  perhaps  she  would  never  see  again;  and 
who  wanted  never  to  see  her  again,  never  in  all  time  or 
space.  M.  Mennaval  had  played  his  game  for  his  own 
desire,  and  he  had  lost;  but  what  had  she  gained  where 
M.  Mennaval  had  lost?  She  had  gained  that  which  now 
Ian  despised,  which  he  would  willingly,  so  far  as  she  was 
concerned,  reject  with  contempt.  .  .  .  And  yet,  and  yet, 
while  Ian  lived  he  must  still  be  grateful  to  her  that,  by 
whatever  means,  she  had  helped  him  to  do  what  meant 
so  much  to  England.  Yes,  he  could  not  wholly  dismiss 
her  from  his  mind;  he  must  still  say,  "This  she  did  for 
me — this  thing,  in  itself  not  commendable,  she  did  for 
me;  and  I  took  it  for  my  country." 

Her  eyes  were  open,  and  her  garden  had  been  invaded 
by  those  revolutionaries  of  life  and  time,  Nemesis,  Penalty, 
Remorse.  They  marauded  every  sacred  and  secret  corner 
of  her  mind  and  soul.  They  came  with  whips  to  scourge 
her.  Nothing  was  private  to  her  inner  self  now.  Every- 
thing was  arrayed  against  her.  All  life  doubled  back- 
wards on  her,  blocking  her  path. 

M.  Mennaval — what  did  she  care  for  him!  Yet  here 
he  was  at  her  door  asking  payment  for  the  merchandise 
he  had  sold  to  her:  his  judgment,  his  reputation  as  a 
diplomatist,  his  freedom,  the  respect  of  the  world — for 
how  could  the  world  respect  a  man  at  whom  it  laughed, 
a  man  who  had  hoped  to  be  given  the  key  to  a  secret  door 
in  a  secret  garden! 

As  Jasmine  sat  looking  at  the  card,  the  footman  en- 
tered again  with  a  note. 

"His  Excellency's  compliments,"  he  said,  and  with- 
drew. 

She  opened  the  letter  hesitatingly,  held  it  in  her  hand 
for  a  moment  without  reading  it,  then,  with  an  impulsive 
328 


"BATTLE    CRY    OF    FREEDOM" 

effort,  did  so.     When  she  had  finished,  she  gave  a  cry  of 
anger  and  struck  her  tiny  clinched  hand  upon  her  knee. 
The  note  ran: 

"  Chere  amie,  you  have  so  much  indisposition  in  these  days.  It 
is  all  too  vexing  to  your  friends.  The  world  will  be  surprised,  if 
you  allow  a  migraine  to  come  between  us.  Indeed,  it  will  be  shocked. 
The  world  understands  always  so  imperfectly,  and  I  have  no  gift 
of  explanation.  Of  course,  I  know  the  war  has  upset  many,  but 
I  thought  you  could  not  be  upset  so  easily — no,  it  cannot  be  the 
war;  so  I  must  try  and  think  what  it  is.  If  I  cannot  think  by  to- 
morrow at  five  o'clock,  I  will  call  again  to  ask  you.  Perhaps  the 
migraine  will  be  better.  But,  if  you  will  that  migraine  to  be  far 
away,  it  will  fly,  and  then  I  shall  be  near.  Is  it  not  so?  You  will 
tell  me  to-morrow  at  five,  will  you  not,  belle  amie? 

"  A  t&i,  "  M.  M." 

The  words  scorched  her  eyes.  They  angered  her, 
scourged  her.  One  of  life's  Revolutionaries  was  insolent- 
ly ravaging  the  secret  place  where  her  pride  dwelt.  Pride 
— what  pride  had  she  now?  Where  was  the  room  for 
pride  or  vanity?  .  .  .  And  all  the  time  she  saw  the  face  of 
a  dead  man  down  by  the  river — a  face  now  beneath  the 
sod.  It  flashed  before  her  eyes  at  moments  when  she 
least  could  bear  it,  to  agitate  her  soul. 

M.  Mennayal — how  dare  he  write  to  her  so!  "Chere 
amie"  arid  "A  toi" — how  strange  the  words  looked  now, 
how  repulsive  and  strange !  It  did  not  seem  possible  that 
once  before  he  had  written  such  words  to  her.  But  never 
before  had  these  epithets  or  others  been  accompanied  by 
such  meaning  as  his  other  words  conveyed. 

"  I  will  not  see  him  to-morrow.  I  will  not  see  him  ever 
again,  if  I  can  help  it,"  she  said  bitterly,  and  trembling 
with  agitation.  "I  shall  go  where  I  shall  not  be  found. 
I  will  go  to-night." 

The  door  opened.  Her  maid  entered.  "You  wanted 
me,  madame?"  asked  the  girl,  in  some  excitement  and 
very  pale. 

"Yes,  what  is  the  matter?  Why  so  agitated?"  Jas- 
mine asked. 

329 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

The  maid's  eyes  were  on  the  sjambok.  She  pointed  to 
it.  "It  was  that,  madame.  We  are  all  agitated.  It  was 
terrible.  One  had  never  seen  anything  Hke  that  before 
in  one's  life,  madame — never.  It  was  like  the  days — yes, 
of  slavery.  It  was  like  the  galleys  of  Toulon  in  the  old 
days.  It  was — " 

"There,  don't  be  so  eloquent,  Lablanche.  What  do  you 
know  of  the  galleys  of  Toulon  or  the  days  of  slavery?" 

"Madame,  I  have  heard,  I  have  read,  I — " 

"Yes,  but  did  you  love  Krool  so?" 

The  girl  straightened  herself  with  dramatic  indignation. 
"Madame,  that  man,  that  creature,  that  toad — !" 

"Then  why  so  exercised?  Were  you  so  pained  at  his 
punishment?  Were  all  the  household  so  pained?" 

"Every  one  hated  him,  madame,"  said  the  girl,  with 
energy. 

"Then  let  me  hear  no  more  of  this  impudent  nonsense," 
Jasmine  said,  with  decision. 

"Oh,  madame,  to  speak  to  me  like  this!"  Tears  were 
ready  to  do  needful  service. 

"Do  you  wish  to  remain  with  me,  Lablanche?" 

"Ah,  madame,  but  yes — " 

"Then  my  head  aches,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  make  it 
worse.  .  .  .  And,  see,  Lablanche,  there  is  that  grey  walking- 
suit;  also  the  mauve  dressing-gown,  made  by  Loison; 
take  them,  if  you  can  make  them  fit  you;  and  be  good." 

"Madame,  how  kind — ah,  no  one  is  like  you,  ma- 
dame— !" 

"Well,  we  shall  see  about  that  quite  soon.  Put  out 
at  once  every  gown  of  mine  for  me  to  see,  and  have  trunks 
ready  to  pa«k  immediately;  but  only  three  trunks,  not 
more." 

"Madame  is  going  away?" 

"Do  as  I  say,  Lablanche.  We  go  to-night.  The  grey 
gown  and  the  mauve  dressing-gown  that  Loison  made, 
you  will  look  well  in  them.  Quick,  now,  please." 

In  a  flutter  Lablanche  left  the  room,  her  eyes  gleaming. 
330 


"BATTLE    CRY   OF    FREEDOM" 

She  had  had  her  mind  on  the  grey  suit  for  some  time,  but 
the  mauve  dressing-gown  as  well — it  was  too  good  to  be 
true. 

She  almost  ran  into  Lady  Tynemouth's  arms  as  the 
door  opened.  With  a  swift  apology  she  sped  away,  after 
closing  the  door  upon  the  visitor. 

Jasmine  rose  and  embraced  her  friend,  and  Lady  Tyne- 
mouth  subsided  into  a  chair  with  a  sigh. 

"My  dear  Jasmine,  you  look  so  frail,"  she  said.  "A 
short  time  ago  I  feared  you  were  going  to  blossom  into 
too  ripe  fruit,  now  you  look  almost  a  little  pinched.  But 
it  quite  becomes  you,  mignonne — quite.  You  have  dark 
lines  under  your  eyes,  and  that  transparency  of  skin — it 
is  quite  too  fetching.  Are  you  glad  to  see  me?" 

"I  would  have  seen  no  one  to-day,  no  one,  except  you 
or  Rudyard." 

"Love  and  duty,"  said  Lady  Tynemouth,  laughing,  yet 
acutely'alive  to  the  something  so  terribly  wrong,  of  which 
she  had  spoken  to  Ian  Stafford. 

"Why  is  it  my  duty  to  see  you,  Alice?"  asked  Jasmine, 
with  the  dry  glint  in  her  tone  which  had  made  her  con- 
versation so  pleasing  to  men. 

"You  clever  girl,  how  you  turn  the  tables  on  me,"  her 
friend  replied,  and  then,  seeing  the  sjambok  on  the  table, 
took  it  up.  "What  is  this  formidable  instrument?  Are 
you  flagellating  the  saints?" 

"Not  the  saints,  Alice." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  going  to  scourge 
yourself?" 

Then  they  both  smiled — and  both  immediately  sighed. 
Lady  Tynemouth's  sympathy  was  deeply  roused  for  Jas- 
mine, and  she  meant  to  try  and  win  her  confidence  and 
to  help  her  in  her  trouble,  if  she  could;  but  she  was  full 
of  something  else  at  this  particular  moment,  and  she  was 
not  completely  conscious  of  the  agony  before  her. 

"Have  you  been  using  this  sjambok  on  Mennaval?" 
ghe  asked  with  an  attempt  at  lightness.  "I  saw  him 
33' 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

leaving  as  I  came  in.     He  looked  rather  dejected- 
stormy,  I  don't  quite  know  which." 

"Does  it  matter  which?  I  didn't  see  Mennaval  to- 
day." 

"Then  no  wonder  he  looked  dejected  and  stormy. 
But  what  is  the  history  of  this  instrument  of  torture?" 
she  asked,  holding  up  the  sjambok  again.  - 

"Krool." 

"Krool!  Jasmine,  you  surely  don't  mean  to  say  that 
you — " 

"Not  I  —  it  was  Rudyard.  Krool  was  insolent  —  a 
half-caste,  you  know." 

"Krool — why,  yes,  it  was  he  I  saw  being  helped  into 
a  cab  by  a  policeman  just  down  there  in  Piccadilly.  You 
don't  mean  that  Rudyard — " 

She  pushed  the  sjambok  away  from  her. 

' '  Yes — terribly. ' ' 

"Then  I  suppose  the  insolence  was  terrible  enough  to 
justify  it." 

"Quite,  I  think."    Jasmine's  voice  was  calm. 

"But  of  course  it  is  not  usual — in  these  parts." 

"Rudyard  is  not  usual  in  these  parts,  or  Krool  either. 
It  was  a  touch  of  the  Vaal." 

Lady  Tynemouth  gave  a  little  shudder.  "I  hope  it 
won't  become  fashionable.  We  are  altogether  too  sensa- 
tional nowadays.  But,  seriously,  Jasmine,  you  are  not 
well.  You  must  do  something.  You  must  have  a  change. ' ' 

"I  am  going  to  do  something — to  have  a  change." 

"That's  good.     Where  are  you  going,  dear?" 

"South.  .  .  .  And  how  are  you  getting  on  with  your 
hospital-ship?" 

Lady  Tynemouth  threw  up  her  hands.  "Jasmine,  I'm 
in  despair.  I  had  set  my  heart  upon  it.  I  thought  I 
could  do  it  easily,  and  I  haven't  done  it,  after  trying  as 
hard  as  can  be.  Everything  has  gone  wrong,  and  now 
Tynie  cables  I  mustn't  go  to  South  Africa.  Fancy  a  hus- 
band forbidding  a  wife  to  come  to  him." 
332 


"BATTLE    CRY    OF    FREEDOM" 

"Well,  perhaps  it's  better  than  a  husband  forbidding 
his  wife  to  leave  him." 

"  Jasmine,  I  believe  you  would  joke  if  you  were 
dying." 

"I  am  dying." 

There  was  that  in  the  tone  of  Jasmine's  voice  which 
gave  her  friend  a  start.  She  eyed  her  suddenly  with  a 
great  anxiety. 

"And  I'm  not  jesting,"  Jasmine  added,  with  a  forced 
smile.  "But  tell  me  what  has  gone  wrong  with  all  your 
plans.  You  don't  mind  what  Tynemouth  says.  Of 
course  you  will  do  as  you  like." 

"Of  course;  but  still  Tynie  has  never  'issued  in- 
structions' before,  and  if  there  was  any  time  I  ought  to 
humour  him  it  is  now.  He's  so  intense  about  the  war! 
But  I  can't  explain  everything  on  paper  to  him,  so  I've 
written  to  say  I'm  going  to  South  Africa  to  explain,  and 
that  I'll  come  back  by  the  next  boat,  if  my  reasons  are  not 
convincing." 

In  other  circumstances  Jasmine  would  have  laughed. 
"He  will  find  you  convincing,"  she  said,  meaningly. 

"I  said  if  he  found  my  reasons  convincing." 

"You  will  be  the  only  reason  to  him." 

"  My  dear  Jasmine,  you  are  really  becoming  sentimental. 
Tynie  would  blush  to  discover  himself  being  silly  over  me. 
We  get  on  so  well  because  we  left  our  emotions  behind 
us  when  we  married." 

"Yours,  I  know,  you  left  on  the  Zambesi,"  said  Jas- 
mine, deliberately. 

A  dull  fire  came  into  Lady  Tynemouth's  eyes,  and  for 
an  instant  there  was  danger  of  Jasmine  losing  a  friend  she 
much  needed;  but  Lady  Tynemouth  had  a  big  heart,  and 
she  knew  that  her  friend  was  in  a  mood  when  anything 
was  possible,  or  everything  impossible. 

So  she  only  smiled,  and  said,  easily:  "Dearest  Jas- 
mine, that  umbrella  episode  which  made  me  love  Ian 
Stafford  for  ever  and  ever  without  even  amen  came  after 
333 


THE    JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

I  was  married,  and  so  your  pin  doesn't  prick,  not  a  weeny 
bit.  No,  it  isn't  Tynie  that  makes  me  sad.  It's  the 
Climbers  who  won't  pay." 

"The  Climbers?  You  want  money  for — " 
"Yes,  the  hospital-ship;  and  I  thought  they'd  jump  at 
it;  but  they've  all  been  jumping  in  other  directions.  I 
asked  the  Steuvenfeldts,  the  Boulters,  the  Felix  Fowles, 
the  Brutons,  the  Sheltons,  and  that  fellow  Mackerel,  who 
has  so  much  money  he  doesn't  know  what  to  do  with  it, 
and  twenty  others;  and  Mackerel  was  the  only  one  who 
would  give  me  anything  at  all  large.  He  gave  me  ten  thou- 
sand pounds.  But  I  want  fifty — fifty,  my  beloved.  I'm 
simply  broken-hearted.  It  would  do  so  much  good,  and  I 
could  manage  the  thing  so  well,  and  I  could  get  other 
splendid  people  to  help  me  to  manage  it — there's  Effie 
Lyndhall  and  Mary  Meacham.  The  Mackerel  wanted  to 
come  along,  too,  but -I  told  him  he  could  come  out  and 
fetch  us  back — that  there  mustn't  be  any  scandal  while 
the  war  was  on.  I  laugh,  my  dear,  but  I  could  cry  my 
eyes  out.  I  want  something  to  do — I've  always  wanted 
something  to  do.  I've  always  been  sick  of  an  idle  life, 
but  I  wouldn't  do  a  hundred  things  I  might  have  done. 
This  thing  I  can  do,  however,  and,  if  I  did  it,  some  of  my 
debt  to  the  world  would  be  paid.  It  seems  to  me  that 
these  last  fifteen  years  in  England  have  been  awful.  We 
are  all  restless;  we  all  have  been  going,  going — nowhere; 
we  have  all  been  doing,  doing — nothing;  we  have  all  been 
thinking,  thinking,  thinking — of  ourselves.  And  I've  been  a 
playbody  like  the  rest ;  I've  gone  with  the  Climbers  because 
they  could  do  things  for  me;  I've  wanted  more  and  more 
of  everything — more  gadding,  more  pleasure,  more  ex- 
citement. It's  been  like  a  brass-band  playing  all  the  time, 
my  life  this  past  ten  years.  I'm  sick  of  it.  It's  only  some 
big  thing  that  can  take  me  out  of  it.  I've  got  to  make 
some  great  plunge,  or  in  a  few  years  more  I'll  be  a  middle- 
aged  peeress  with  nothing  left  but  a  double  chin,  a  tongue 
for  gossip,  and  a  string  of  pearls.  There  must  be  a 
334 


"BATTLE    CRY    OF    FREEDOM'3 

bouleuersement  of  things  as  they  are,  or  good-bye  to  every- 
thing except  emptiness.    Don't  you  see,  Jasmine,  dearest  ?" 

"Yes  yes,  I  see."  Jasmine  got  up,  went  to  her  desk, 
opened  a  drawer,  took  out  a  book,  and  began  to  write 
hastily.  "Go  on,"  she  said  as  she  wrote;  "I  can  hear 
what  you  are  saying." 

"But  are  you  really  interested?" 

"Even  Tynemouth  would  find  you  interesting  and  con- 
vincing. Go  on." 

"I  haven't  anything  more  to  say,  except  that  nothing 
lies  between  me  and  flagellation  and  the  sack-cloth," — she 
toyed  with  the  sjambok — "except  the  Climbers;  and  they 
have  failed  me.  They  won't  play — or  pay." 

Jasmine  rose  from  the  desk  and  came  forward  with  a 
paper  in  her  hand.  "  No,  they  have  not  failed  you,  Alice," 
she  said,  gently.  "The  Climbers  seldom  really  disap- 
point you.  The  thing  is,  you  must  know  how  to  talk  to 
them,  to  say  the  right  thing,  the  flattering,  the  tactful, 
and  the  nice  sentimental  thing, — they  mostly  have  middle- 
class  sentimentality — and  then  you  get  what  you  want. 
As  you  do  now.  There.  ..." 

She  placed  in  her  friend's  hand  a  long,  narrow  slip  of 
paper.  Lady  Tynemouth  looked  astonished,  gazed  hard 
at  the  paper,  then  sprang  to  her  feet,  pale  and  agitated. 

"Jasmine — you — this — sixty  thousand  pounds!"  she 
cried.  "A  cheque  for  sixty  thousand  pounds — Jasmine!" 

There  was  a  strange  brilliance  in  Jasmine's  eyes,  a 
hectic  flush  on  her  cheek. 

"  It  must  not  be  cashed  for  forty-eight  hours;  but  after 
that  the  money  will  be  there." 

Lady  Tynemouth  caught  Jasmine's  shoulders  in  her 
trembling  yet  strong  fingers,  and  looked  into  the  wild 
eyes  with  searching  inquiry  and  solicitude. 

"But,  Jasmine,  it  isn't  possible.  Will  Rudyard — can 
you  afford  it?" 

"That  will  not  be  Rudyard's  money  which  you  will 
get,    It  will  be  all  my  own." 
335 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"But  you  yourself  are  not  rich.  Sixty  thousand 
pounds — why  ?" 

"It  is  because  it  is  a  sacrifice  to  me  that  I  give  it; 
because  it  is  my  own;  because  it  is  two-thirds  of  what 
I  possess.  And  if  all  is  needed  before  we  have  finished, 
then  all  shall  go." 

Alice  Tynemouth  still  held  the  shoulders,  still  gazed 
into  the  eyes  which  burned  and  shone,  which  seemed  to 
look  beyond  this  room  into  some  world  of  the  soul  or 
imagination.  "Jasmine,  you  are  not  crazy,  are  you?" 
she  asked,  excitedly.  "You  will  not  repent  of  this?  It 
is  not  a  sudden  impulse?" 

"Yes,  it  is  a  sudden  impulse;  it  came  to  me  all  at  once. 
But  when  it  came  I  knew  it  was  the  right  thing,  the  only 
thing  to  do.  I  will  not  repent  of  it.  Have  no  fear.  It  is 
final.  It  is  sure.  It  means  that,  like  you,  I  have  found 
a  rope  to  drag  myself  out  of  this  stream  which  sweeps 
me  on  to  the  rapids." 

"Jasmine,  do  you  mean  that  you  will — that  you  are 
coming,  too?" 

"Yes,  I  am  going  with  you.  We  will  do  it  together. 
You  shall  lead,  and  I  shall  help.  I  have  a  gift  for  organi- 
zation. My  grandfather,  he — ' 

"All  the  world  knows  that.  If  you  have  anything  of 
his  gift,  we  shall  not  fail.  We  shall  feel  that  we  are  doing 
something  for  our  country — and,  oh,  so  much  for  our- 
selves! And  we  shall  be  near  our  men.  Tynie  and 
Ruddy  Byng  will  be  out  there,  and  we  shall  be  ready  for 
anything  if  necessary.  But  Rudyard,  will  he  approve?" 
She  held  up  the  cheque. 

Jasmine  made  a  passionate  gesture.  "There  are  times 
when  we  must  do  what  something  in  us  tells  us  to  do, 
no  matter  what  the  consequences.  I  am  myself.  I  am 
not  a  slave.  If  I  take  my  own  way  in  the  pleasures  of 
life,  why  should  I  not  take  it  in  the  duties  and  the  busi- 
ness of  life?" 

Her  eyes  took  on  a  look  of  abstraction,  and  her  small 
336 


"BATTLE    CRY   OF    FREEDOM'3 

hand  closed  on  the  large,  capable  hand  of  her  friend. 
"Isn't  work  the  secret  of  life?  My  grandfather  used  to 
say  it  was.  Always,  always,  he  used  to  say  to  me,  'Do 
something,  Jasmine.  Find  a  work  to  do,  and  do  it.  Make 
the  world  look  at  you,  not  for  what  you  seem  to  be,  but 
for  what  you  do.  Work  cures  nearly  every  illness  and 
nearly  every  trouble ' — that  is  what  he  said.  And  I  must 
work  or  go  mad.  I  tell  you  I  must  work,  Alice.  We  will 
work  together  out  there  where  great  battles  will  be 
fought." 

A  sob  caught  her  in  the  throat,  and  Alice  Tynemouth 
wrapped  her  round  with  tender  arms.  "It  will  do  you 
good,  darling,"  she  said,  softly.  "  It  will  help  you  through 
— through  it  all,  whatever  it  is." 

For  an  instant  Jasmine  felt  that  she  must  empty  out 
her  heart;  tell  the  inner  tale  of  her  struggle;  but  the 
instant  of  weakness  passed  as  suddenly  as  it  came,  and 
she  only  said — repeating  Alice  Tynemouth's  words: 
"Yes,  through  it  all,  through  it  all,  whatever  it  is."  Then 
she  added:  "I  want  to  do  something  big.  I  can,  I  can. 
I  want  to  get  out  of  this  into  the  open  world.  I  want  to 
fight.  I  want  to  balance  things  somehow — inside  my- 
self  " 

All  at  once  she  became  very  quiet.  "But  we  must 
do  business  like  business  people.  This  money:  there 
must  be  a  small  committee  of  business  men,  who — " 

Alice  Tynemouth  finished  the  sentence  for  her.  "Who 
are  not  Climbers?" 

"Yes.  But  the  whole  organization  must  be  done  by 
ourselves — all  the  practical,  unfinancial  work.  The  com- 
mittee will  only  be  like  careful  trustees." 

There  was  a  new  light  in  Jasmine's  eyes.  She  felt  for 
the  moment  that  life  did  not  end  in  a  cul  de  sac.  She  knew 
that  now  she  had  found  a  way  for  Rudyard  and  herself  to 
separate  without  disgrace,  without  humiliation  to  him.  She 
could  see  a  few  steps  ahead.  When  she  gave  Lablanche 
instructions  to  put  out  her  clothes  a  little  while  before, 
337 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

she  did  not  know  what  she  was  going  to  do;  but  now  she 
knew.  She  knew  how  she  could  make  it  easier  for  Rud- 
yard  when  the  inevitable  hour  came, — and  it  was  here — 
which  should  see  the  end  of  their  life  together.  He  need 
not  now  sacrifice  himself  so  much  for  her  sake. 

She  wanted  to  be  alone,  and,  as  if  divining  her  thought, 
Lady  Tynemouth  embraced  her,  and  a  moment  later  there 
was  no  sound  in  the  room  save  the  ticking  of  the  clock 
and  the  crackle  of  the  fire. 

How  silent  it  was!  The  world  seemed  very  far  away. 
Peace  seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  the  place,  and 
Jasmine's  stillness  as  she  sat  by  the  fire  staring  into  the 
embers  was  a  part  of  it.  So  lost  was  she  that  she  was  not 
conscious  of  an  opening  door  and  of  a  footstep.  She  was 
roused  by  a  low  voice. 

"  Jasmine!" 

She  did  not  start.  It  was  as  though  there  had  come  a 
call,  for  which  she  had  waited  long,  and  she  appeared  to 
respond  slowly  to  it,  as  one  would  to  a  summons  to  the 
scaffold.  There  was  no  outward  agitation  now,  there 
was  only  a  cold  stillness  which  seemed  little  to  belong  to 
the  dainty  figure  which  had  ever  been  more  like  a  decora- 
tion than  a  living  utility  in  the  scheme  of  things.  The 
crisis  had  come  which  she  had  dreaded  yet  invited — that 
talk  which  they  two  must  have  before  they  went  their 
different  ways.  She  had  never  looked  Rudyard  in  the 
eyes  direct  since  the  day  when  Adrian  Fellowes  died. 
They  had  met,  but  never  quite  alone;  always  with  some 
one  present,  either  the  servants  or  some  other.  Now  they 
were  face  to  face. 

On  Rudyard's  lips  was  a  faint  smile,  but  it  lacked  the 
old  bonhomie  which  was  part  of  his  natural  equipment; 
and  there  were  still  sharp,  haggard  traces  of  the  agitation 
which  had  accompanied  the  expulsion  of  Krool. 

For  an  instant  the  idea  possessed  her  that  she  would 
tell  him  everything  there  was  to  tell,  and  face  the, 
338 


"BATTLE    CRY    OF    FREEDOM" 

consequences,  no  matter  what  they  might  be.  It  was 
not  in  her  nature  to  do  things  by  halves,  and  since 
catastrophe  was  come,  her  will  was  to  drink  the  whole 
cup  to  the  dregs.  She  did  not  want  to  spare  herself. 
Behind  it  all  lay  something  of  that  terrible  wilfulness 
which  had  controlled  her  life  so  far.  It  was  the  unlovely 
soul  of  a  great  pride.  She  did  not  want  to  be  forgiven  for 
anything.  She  did  not  want  to  be  condoned.  There 
was  a  spirit  of  defiance  which  refused  to  accept  favours, 
preferring  punishment  to  the  pity  or  the  pardon  which 
stooped  to  make  it  easier  for  her.  It  was  a  dangerous 
pride,  and  in  the  mood  of  it  she  might  throw  away  every- 
thing, with  an  abandonment  and  recklessness  only  known 
to  such  passionate  natures. 

The  mood  came  on  her  all  at  once  as  she  stood  and 
looked  at  Rudyard.  She  read,  or  she  thought  she  read  in 
his  eyes,  in  his  smile,  the  superior  spirit  condescending  to 
magnanimity,  to  compassion;  and  her  whole  nature  was 
instantly  up  in  arms.  She  almost  longed  on  the  instant 
to  strip  herself  bare,  as  it  were,  and  let  him  see  her  as 
she  really  was,  or  as,  in  her  despair,  she  thought  she 
really  was.  The  mood  in  which  she  had  talked  to  Lady 
Tynemouth  was  gone,  and  in  its  place  a  spirit  of  revolt 
was  at  work.  A  certain  sullenness  which  Rudyard  and 
no  one  else  had  ever  seen  came  into  her  eyes,  and  her 
lips  became  white  with  an  ominous  determination.  She 
forgot  him  and  all  that  he  would  suffer  if  she  told  him 
the  whole  truth;  and  the  whole  truth  would,  in  her 
passion,  become  far  more  than  the  truth:  she]  was  again 
the  egoist,  the  centre  of  the  universe.  What  happened 
to  her  was  the  only  thing  which  mattered  in  all  the 
world.  So  it  had  ever  been;  and  her  beauty  and  her 
wit  and  her  youth  and  the  habit  of  being  spoiled  had 
made  it  all  possible,  without  those  rebuffs  and  that  con- 
fusion which  fate  provides  sooner  or  later  for  the  egoist. 

"Well,"  she  said,  sharply,  "say  what  you  wish  to  say. 
You  have  wanted  to  say  it  badly.     I  am  ready." 
330 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

He  was  stunned  by  what  seemed  to  him  the  anger  and 
the  repugnance  in  her  tone. 

"You  remember  you  asked  me  to  come,  Jasmine,  when 
you  took  the  sjambok  from  me." 

He  nodded  towards  the  table  where  it  lay,  then  went 
forward  and  picked  it  up,  his  face  hardening  as  he  did  so. 

Like  a  pendulum  her  mood  swung  back.  By  accident 
he  had  said  the  one  thing  which  could  have  moved  her, 
changed  her  at  the  moment.  The  savage  side  of  him 
appealed  to  her.  What  he  lacked  in  brilliance  and  the 
lighter  gifts  of  raillery  and  eloquence  and  mental  give- 
and-take,  he  had  balanced  by  his  natural  forces — from 
the  power-house,  as  she  had  called  it  long  ago.  Pity, 
solicitude,  the  forced  smile,  magnanimity,  she  did  not 
want  in  this  black  mood.  They  would  have  made  her 
cruelly  audacious,  and  her  temper  would  have  known  no 
license;  but  now,  suddenly,  she  had  a  vision  of  him  as  he 
stamped  down  the  staircase,  his  coat  off,  laying  the  sjam- 
bok on  the  shoulders  of  the  man  who  had  injured  her  so, 
who  hated  her  so,  and  had  done  so  over  all  the  years.  It 
appealed  to  her. 

In  her  heart  of  hearts  she  was  sure  he  had  done  it  di- 
rectly or  indirectly  for  her  sake;  and  that  was  infinitely 
more  to  her  than  that  he  should  stoop  from  the  heights 
to  pick  her  up.  He  was  what  he  was  because  Heaven 
had  made  him  so;  and  she  was  what  she  was  because 
Heaven  had  forgotten  to  make  her  otherwise;  and  he 
could  not  know  or  understand  how  she  came  to  do  things 
that  he  would  not  do.  But  she  could  know  and  under- 
stand why  his  hand  fell  on  Krool  like  that  of  Cain  on 
Abel.  She  softened,  changed  at  once. 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  she  said.  "I've  been  upset. 
Krool  was  insolent,  and  I  ordered  him  to  go.  He  would 
not." 

"  I've  been  a  fool  to  keep  him  all  these  years.  I  didn't 
know  what  he  was — a  traitor,  the  slimmest  of  the  slim,  a 
real  Hottentot-Boer.  I  was  pigheaded  about  him,  because 
340 


"BATTLE    CRY    OF    FREEDOM" 

he  seemed  to  care  so  much  about  me.     That  counts  for 
much  with  the  most  of  us." 

"Alice  Tynemouth  saw  a  policeman  help  him  into  a  cab 
in  Piccadilly  and  take  him  away.  Will  there  be  trouble?" 

A  grim  look  crossed  his  face.  "I  think  not,"  he  re- 
sponded. "There  are  reasons.  He  has  been  stealing 
information  for  years,  and  sending  it  to  Kruger,  he  and — " 

He  stopped  short,  and  into  his  face  came  a  look  of 
sullen  reticence. 

"Yes,  he  and — and  some  one  else?  Who  else?"  Her 
face  was  white.  She  had  a  sudden  intuition. 

He  met  her  eyes.  "Adrian  Fellowes — what  Fellowes 
knew,  Krool  knew,  and  one  way  or  another,  by  one  means 
or  another,  Fellowes  knew  a  great  deal." 

The  knowledge  of  Adrian  Fellowes'  treachery  and  its 
full  significance  had  hardly  come  home  to  him,  even 
when  he  punished  Krool,  so  shaken  was  he  by  the  fact 
that  the  half-caste  had  been  false  to  him.  Afterwards, 
however,  as  the  Partners  all  talked  together  up-stairs,  the 
enormity  of  the  dead  man's  crime  had  fastened  on  him, 
and  his  brain  had  been  stunned  by  the  terrible  thought 
that  directly  or  indirectly  Jasmine  had  abetted  the  crime. 
Things  he  had  talked  over  with  her,  and  with  no  one  else, 
had  got  to  Kruger's  knowledge,  as  the  information  from 
South  Africa  showed.  She  had  at  least  been  indiscreet, 
had  talked  to  Fellowes  with  some  freedom,  or  he  could 
not  have  known  what  he  did.  But  directly,  knowingly 
abetted  Fellowes?  Of  course,  she  had  not  done  that;  but 
her  foolish  confidences  had  abetted  treachery,  had  wronged 
him,  had  helped  to  destroy  his  plans,  had  injured  England. 

He  had  savagely  punished  Krool  for  insolence  to  her, 
and  for  his  treachery,  but  a  new  feeling  had  grown  up 
in  him  in  the  last  half-hour.  Under  the  open  taunts  of 
his  colleagues,  a  deep  resentment  had  taken  possession 
of  him  that  his  work,  so  hard  to  do,  so  important  and 
critical,  should  have  been  circumvented  by  the  indis- 
cretions of  his  wife. 

34i 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Upon  her  now  this  announcement  came  with  crushing 
force.  Adrian  Fellowes  had  gained  from  her — she  knew  it 
all  too  well  now — that  which  had  injured  her  husband; 
from  which,  at  any  rate,  he  ought  to  have  been  immune. 
Her  face  flushed  with  a  resentment  far  greater  than  that 
of  Rudyard's,  and  it  was  heightened  by  a  humiliation 
which  overwhelmed  her.  She  had  been  but  a  tool  in 
every  sense,  she,  Jasmine  Byng,  one  who  ruled,  had  been 
used  like  a — she  could  not  form  the  comparison  in  her 
mind — by  a  dependent,  a  hanger-on  of  her  husband's 
bounty;  and  it  was  through  her,  originally,  that  he  had 
been  given  a  real  chance  in  life  by  Rudyard. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  calmly,  as  soon  as  she  could 
get  her  voice.  "I  was  the  means  of  your  employing 
him." 

"That  did  not  matter,"  he  said,  rather  nervously. 
"There  was  no  harm  in  that,  unless  you  knew  his  char- 
acter before  he  came  to  me." 

"You  think  I  did?" 

"I  cannot  think  so.  It  would  have  been  too  ruthless — 
too  wicked." 

She  saw  his  suffering,  and  it  touched  her.  "Of  course 
I  did  not  know  that  he  could  do  such  a  thing — so  shame- 
less. He  was  a  low  coward.  He  did  not  deserve  decent 
burial,"  she  added.  ''He  had  good  fortune  to  die  as  he 
did." 

"How  did  he  die?"  Rudyard  asked  her,  with  a  face  so 
unlike  what  it  had  always  been,  so  changed  by  agitation, 
that  it  scarcely  seemed  his.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  hers. 

She  met  them  resolutely.  Did  he  ask  her  in  order  to 
see  if  she  had  any  suspicion  of  himself?  Had  he  done  it? 
If  he  had,  there  would  be  some  mitigation  of  her  suffering. 
Or  was  it  Ian  Stafford  who  had  done  it  ?  One  or  the  other 
— but  which? 

"He  died  without  being  made  to  suffer,"  she  said. 
"Most  people  who  do  wrong  have  to  suffer." 

"But  they  live  on,"  he  said,  bitterly. 
342 


"BATTLE    CRY   OF    FREEDOM'3 

"That  is  no  great  advantage  unless  you  want  to  live," 
she  replied.  "Do  you  know  how  he  died?"  she  added, 
after  a  moment,  with  sharp  scrutiny. 

He  shook  his  head  and  returned  her  scrutiny  with  added 
poignancy.  "It  does  not  matter.  He  ceases  to  do  any 
more  harm.  He  did  enough." 

"Yes,  quite  enough,"  she  said,  with  a  withered  look,  and, 
going  over  to  her  writing-table,  stood  looking  at  him 
questioningly.  He  did  not  speak  again,  however. 

Presently  she  said,  very  quietly,  "I  am  going  away." 

"I  do  not  understand." 

"I  am  going  to  work." 

"I  understand  still  less." 

She  took  from  the  writing-table  her  cheque-book,  and 
handed  it  to  him.  He  looked  at  it,  and  read  the  counter- 
foil of  the  cheque  she  had  given  to  Alice  Tynemouth. 

He  was  bewildered.  "What  does  this  mean?"  he 
asked. 

"  It  is  for  a  hospital-ship." 

"Sixty  thousand  pounds!  Why,  it  is  nearly  all  you 
have." 

"It  is  two-thirds-  of  what  I  have." 

"Why — in  God's  name,  why?" 

"To  buy  my  freedom,"  she  answered,  bitterly. 

"From  what?" 

"From  you." 

He  staggered  back  and  leaned  heavily  against  a  book- 
case. 

"Freedom  from  me!"  he  exclaimed,  hoarsely. 

He  had  had  terribly  bitter  and  revengeful  feelings  dur- 
ing the  last  hour,  but  all  at  once  his  real  self  emerged,  the 
thing  that  was  deepest  in  him.  ' '  Freedom  from  me  ?  Has 
it  come  to  that?" 

"Yes,  absolutely.     Do  you  remember  the  day  you  first 

said  to  me  that  something  was  wrong  with  it  all, — the 

day  that  Ian  Stafford  dined  after  his  return  from  abroad? 

Well,  it  has  been  all  wrong — cruelly  wrong.     We  haven't 

23  343 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

made  the  best  of  things  together,  when  everything  was 
with  us  to  do  so.  I  have  spoiled  it  all.  It  hasn't  been 
what  you  expected." 

"Nor  what  you  expected?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

"Nor  what  I  expected;  but  you  are  not  to  blame  for 
that." 

Suddenly  all  he  had  ever  felt  for  her  swept  through  his 
being,  and  sullenness  fled  away.  "You  have  ceased  to 
love  me,  then.  .  .  .  See,  that  is  the  one  thing  that  matters, 
Jasmine.  All  else  disappears  beside  that.  Do  you  love 
me?  Do  you  love  me  still?  Do  you  love  me,  Jasmine? 
Answer  that." 

He  looked  like  the  ghost  of  his  old  dead  self,  pleading 
to  be  recognized. 

His  misery  oppressed  her.  "What  does  one  know  of 
one's  self  in  the  midst  of  all  this — of  everything  that  has 
nothing  to  do  with  love?"  she  asked. 

What  she  might  have  said  in  the  dark  mood  which  was 
coming  on  her  again  it  is  hard  to  say,  but  from  beneath 
the  window  of  the  room  which  looked  on  Park  Lane,  there 
came  the  voice  of  a  street-minstrel,  singing  to  a  travelling 
piano,  played  by  sympathetic  fingers,  the  song: 

"She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 
And  lovers  around  her  are  sighing — " 

The  simple  pathos  of  the  song  had  nothing  to  do  with 
her  own  experience  or  her  own  case,  but  the  flood  of  it 
swept  through  her  veins  like  tears.  She  sank  into  a  chair 
and  listened  for  a  moment  with  eyes  shining,  then  she 
sprang  up  in  an  agitation  which  made  her  tremble  and  her 
face  go  white. 

"No,  no,  no,  Rudyard,  I  do  not  love  you,"  she  said, 
swiftly.  "And  because  I  do  not  love  you,  I  will  not  stay. 
I  never  loved  you,  never  truly  loved  you  at  any  time.  I 
never  knew  myself — that  is  all  that  I  can  say.  I  never 
was  awake  till  now.  I  never  was  wholly  awake  till  I  saw 
you  driving  Krool  into  the  street  with  the  sjambok." 
344 


"BATTLE    CRY    OF    FREEDOM" 

She  flung  up  her  hands.  "For  God's  sake,  let  me  be 
truthful  at  last.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you — I  have  hurt 
you  enough,  but  I  do  not  love  you ;  and  I  must  go.  I  am 
going  with  Alice  Tynemouth.  We  are  going  together  to 
do  something.  Maybe  I  shall  learn  what  will  make  life 
possible." 

He  reached  out  his  arms  towards  her  with  a  sudden 
tenderness. 

"No,  no,  no,  do  not  touch  me,"  she  cried.  "Do  not 
come  near  me.  I  must  be  alone  now,  and  from  now  on 
and  on.  .  .  .  You  do  not  understand,  but  I  must  be  alone. 
I  must  work  it  out  alone,  whatever  it  is." 

She  got  up  with  a  quick  energy,  and  went  over  to  the 
writing-table  again.  "It  may  take  every  penny  I  have 
got,  but  I  shall  do  it,  because  it  is  the  thing  I  feel  I  must 
do." 

"You  have  millions,  Jasmine,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  appeal- 
ing voice. 

She  looked  at  him  almost  fiercely  again.  "No,  I  have 
what  is  my  own,  my  very  own,  and  no  more,"  she  re- 
sponded, bitterly.  "You  will  do  your  work,  and  I  will 
do  mine.  You  will  stay  here.  There  will  be  no  scandal, 
because  I  shall  be  going  with  Alice  Tynemouth,  and  the 
world  will  not  misunderstand." 

"There  will  be  no  scandal,  because  I  am  going,  too," 
he  said,  firmly. 

"No,  no,  you  cannot,  must  not,  go,"  she  urged. 

"I  am  going  to  South  Africa  in  two  days,"  he  replied. 
"Stafford  was  going  with  me,  but  he  cannot  go  for  a  week 
or  so.  He  will  help  you,  I  am  sure,  with  forming  your 
committee  and  arranging,  if  you  will  insist  on  doing  this 
thing.  He  is  still  up-stairs  there  with  the  rest  of  them. 
I  will  get  him  down  now,  I — " 

"Ian  Stafford  is  here — in  this  house?"  she  asked,  with 
staring  eyes.  What  inconceivable  irony  it  all  was!  She 
could  have  shrieked  with  that  laughter  which  is  more 
painful  far  than  tears. 

345 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

"  Yes,  he  is  up-stairs.  I  made  him  come  and  help  us — 
he  knows  the  international  game.  He  will  help  you,  too. 
He  is  a  good  friend  —  you  will  know  how  good  some 
day." 

She  went  white  and  leaned  against  the  table. 

"No,  I  shall  not  need  him,"  she  said.  "We  have 
formed  our  committee." 

"But  when  I  am  gone,  he  can  advise  you,  he  can — " 

"  Oh— oh !"  she  murmured,  and  swayed  forward,  fainting. 

He  caught  her  and  lowered  her  gently  into  a  chair. 

"You  are  only  mad,"  he  whispered  to  ears  which  heard 
not  as  he  bent  over  her.  "You  will  be  sane  some  day." 


BOOK    IV 


BOOK    IV 
CHAPTER  XXIX 

'  THE  MENACE  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN 

FAR  away,  sharply  cutting  the  ether,  rise  the  great 
sterile  peaks  and  ridges.  Here  a  stark,  bare  wall  like 
a  prison  which  shuts  in  a  city  of  men  forbidden  the  blithe 
world  of  sun  and  song  and  freedom ;  yonder,  a  giant  of  a 
lost  world  stretched  out  in  stony  ease,  sleeping  on,  while 
over  his  grey  quiet,  generations  of  men  pass.  First  came 
savage,  warring,  brown  races  alien  to  each  other;  then 
following,  white  races  with  faces  tanned  and  burnt  by  the 
sun,  and  smothered  in  unkempt  beard  and  hair — men  rest- 
less and  coarse  and  brave,  and  with  ancient  sins  upon 
them;  but  with  the  Bible  in  their  hands  and  the  language 
of  the  prophets  on  their  lips;  with  iron  will,  with  hatred  as 
deep  as  their  race-love  is  strong;  they  with  their  cattle 
and  their  herds,  and  the  clacking  wagons  carrying  homes 
and  fortunes,  whose  women  were  housewives  and  warriors 
too.  Coming  after  these,  men  of  fairer  aspect,  adventur- 
ous, self-willed,  intent  to  make  cities  in  the  wilderness;  to 
win  open  spaces  for  their  kinsmen,  who  had  no  room  to 
swing  the  hammer  in  the  workshops  of  their  far-off  north- 
ern island  homes;  or  who,  having  room,  stood  helpless 
before  the  furnaces  where  the  fires  had  left  only  the  ashes 
of  past  energies. 

Up  there,  these  mountains  which,  like  Marathon,  look  on 
the  sea.     But  lower  the  gaze  from  the  austere  hills,  slowly 
to  the  plains  below.     First  the  grey  of  the  mountains, 
349 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

turning  to  brown,  then  the  bare  bronze  rock  giving  way 
to  a  tumbled  wilderness  of  boulders,  where  lizards  lie  in 
the  sun,  where  the  meerkat  startles  the  gazelle.  Then  the 
bronze  merging  into  a  green  so  deep  and  strong  that  it 
resembles  a  blanket  spread  upon  the  uplands,  but  broken 
by  kopjes,  shelterless  and  lonely,  rising  here  and  there 
like  watch-towers.  After  that,  below  and  still  below, 
the  flat  and  staring  plain,  through  which  runs  an  ugly 
rift  turning  and  twisting  like  a  snake,  and  moving  on  and 
on,  till  lost  in  the  arc  of  other  hills  away  to  the  east  and 
the  south:  a  river  in  the  waste,  but  still  only  a  muddy 
current  stealing  between  banks  baked  and  sterile;  a 
sinister  stream,  giving  life  to  the  veld,  as  some  gloomy 
giver  of  good  gifts  would  pay  a  debt  of  atonement. 

On  certain  Dark  Days  of  1899-1900,  if  you  had  watched 
these  turgid  waters  flow  by,  your  eyes  would  have  seen 
tinges  of  red  like  blood;  and  following  the  stain  of  red, 
gashed  lifeless  things,  which  had  been  torn  from  the  ranks 
of  sentient  beings. 

Whereupon,  lifting  your  eyes  from  the  river,  you  would 
have  seen  the  answer  to  your  question — masses  of  men 
mounted  and  unmounted,  who  moved,  or  halted,  or  stood 
like  an  animal  with  a  thousand  legs  controlled  by  one 
mind.  Or  again  you  would  have  observed  those  myriad 
masses  plunging  across  the  veld,  still  in  cohering  masses, 
which  shook  and  broke  and  scattered,  regathering  again, 
as  though  drawn  by  a  magnet,  but  leaving  stark  rem- 
nants in  their  wake. 

Great  columns  of  troops  which  had  crossed  the  river 
and  pushed  on  into  a  zone  of  fierce  fire,  turn  and  struggle 
back  again  across  the  stream;  other  thousands  of  men, 
who  had  not  crossed,  succour  their  wounded,  and  retreat 
steadily,  bitterly  to  places  of  safety,  the  victims  of  blunders 
from  which  come  the  bloody  punishment  of  valour. 

Beyond  the  grey  mountains  were  British  men  and 
women  waiting  for  succour  from  forces  which  poured  death 
in  upon  them  from  the  malevolent  kopjes,  for  relief  from  the 
35° 


MENACE   OF   THE    MOUNTAIN 

ravages  of  disease  and  hunger.  They  waited  in  a  strag- 
gling town  of  the  open  plain  circled  by  threatening  hills, 
where  the  threat  became  a  blow,  and  the  blow  was  multi- 
plied a  million  times.  Gaunt,  fighting  men  sought  to 
appease  the  craving  of  starvation  by  the  boiled  carcasses 
of  old  horses;  in  caves  and  dug-outs,  feeble  women,  with 
undying  courage,  kept  alive  the  nickering  fires  of  life  in 
their  children;  and  they  smiled  to  cheer  the  tireless, 
emaciated  warriors  who  went  out  to  meet  death,  or  with  a 
superior  yet  careful  courage  stayed  to  receive  or  escape  it. 

When  night  came,  across  the  hills  and  far  away  in  the 
deep  blue,  white  shaking  streams  of  light  poured  upward, 
telling  the  besieged  forces  over  there  at  Lordkop  that 
rescue  would  come,  that  it  was  moving  on  to  the  moun- 
tain. How  many  times  had  this  light  in  the  sky  flashed 
the  same  grave  pledge  in  the  mystic  code  of  the  heliograph, 
"  We  are  gaining  ground  —  we  will  reach  you  soon." 
How  many  times,  however,  had  the  message  also  been, 
"Not  yet— but  soon." 

Men  died  in  this  great  camp  from  wounds  and  from 
fever,  and  others  went  mad  almost  from  sheer  despair; 
yet  whenever  the  Master  Player  called,  they  sprang  to 
their  places  with  a  new-born  belief  that  he  who  had  been 
so  successful  in  so  many  long-past  battles  would  be  right 
in  the  end  with  his  old  tightness,  though  he  had  been 
wrong  so  often  on  the  Dreitval. 

Others  there  were  who  were  sick  of  the  world  and 
wished  "to  be  well  out  of  it" — as  they  said  to  themselves. 
Some  had  been  cruelly  injured,  and  desire  of  life  was  dead 
in  them;  others  had  given  injury,  and  remorse  had  slain 
peace.  Others  still  there  were  who,  having  done  evil  all 
their  lives,  knew  that  they  could  not  retrace  their  steps, 
and  yet  shrank  from  a  continuance  of  the  old  bad  things. 

Some  indeed,  in  the  red  futile  sacrifice,  had  found  what 
they  came  to  find;  but  some  still  were  left  whose  reckless- 
ness did  not  avail.  Comrades  fell  beside  them,  but, 
unscathed,  they  went  on  fighting.  Injured  men  were 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

carried  in  hundreds  to  the  hospitals,  but  no  wounds 
brought  them  low.  Bullets  were  sprayed  around  them, 
but  none  did  its  work  for  them.  Shells  burst  near,  yet 
no  savage  shard  mutilated  their  bodies. 

Of  these  was  Ian  Stafford. 

Three  times  he  had  been  in  the  fore-front  of  the  fight 
where  Death  came  sweeping  down  the  veld  like  rain,  but 
It  passed  him  by.  Horses  and  men  fell  round  his  guns, 
yet  he  remained  uninjured. 

He  was  patient.  If  Death  would  not  hasten  to  meet 
him,  he  would  wait.  Meanwhile,  he  would  work  while 
he  could,  but  with  no  thought  beyond  the  day,  no  vision 
of  the  morrow. 

He  was  one  of  the  machines  of  war.  He  was  close 
to  his  General,  he  was  the  beloved  of  his  men,  still  he 
was  the  man  with  no  future;  though  he  studied  the  cam- 
paign with  that  thoroughness  which  had  marked  his  last 
years  in  diplomacy. 

He  was  much  among  his  own  wounded,  much  with 
others  who  were  comforted  by  his  solicitude,  by  the 
courage  of  his  eye,  and  the  grasp  of  his  firm,  friendly 
hand.  It  was  at  what  the  soldiers  called  the  Stay  Awhile 
Hospital  that  he  came  in  living  touch  again  with  the  life 
he  had  left  behind. 

He  knew  that  Rudyard  Byng  had  come  to  South  Africa; 
but  he  knew  no  more.  He  knew  that  Jasmine  had,  with 
Lady  Tynemouth,  purchased  a  ship  and  turned  it  into  a 
hospital  at  a  day's  notice;  but  as  to  whether  these  two 
had  really  come  to  South  Africa,  and  harboured  at  the 
Cape,  or  Durban,  he  had  no  knowledge.  He  never 
looked  at  the  English  newspapers  which  arrived  at 
Dreitval  River.  He  was  done  with  that  old  world  in 
which  he  once  worked;  he  was  concerned  only  for  this 
narrow  field  where  an  Empire's  fate  was  being  solved. 

Night,  the  dearest  friend  of  the  soldier,  had  settled  on 
the  veld.     A  thousand  fires  were  burning,  and  there  were 
352 


MENACE    OF    THE    MOUNTAIN 

no  sounds  save  the  murmuring  voices  of  myriads  of  men, 
and  the  stamp  of  hoofs  where  the  Cavalry  and  Mounted 
Infantry  horses  were  picketed.  Food  and  fire,  the^price- 
less  comfort  of  a  blanket  on  the  ground,  and  a  saddle  or 
kit  for  a  pillow  gave  men  compensation  for  all  the  hard- 
ships and  dangers  of  the  day;  and  they  gave  little  thought 
to  the  morrow. 

The  soldier  lives  in  the  present.  His  rifle,  his  horse, 
his  boots,  his  blanket,  the  commissariat,  a  dry  bit  of  ground 
to  sleep  on — these  are  the  things  which  occupy  his  mind. 
His  heroism  is  incidental,  the  commonplace  impulse  of 
the  moment.  He  does  things  because  they  are  there  to 
do,  not  because  some  great  passion,  some  exaltation,  seizes 
him.  His  is  the  real  simple  life.  So  it  suddenly  seemed 
to  Stafford  as  he  left  his  tent,  after  he  had  himself  inspected 
every  man  and  every  horse  in  his  battery  that  lived 
through  the  day  of  death,  and  made  his  way  towards  the 
Stay  Awhile  Hospital. 

"This  is  the  true  thing,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  gazed 
at  the  wide  camp.  He  turned  his  face  here  and  there  in 
the  starlight,  and  saw  human  life  that  but  now  was  mov- 
ing in  the  crash  of  great  guns,  the  shrieking  of  men  ter- 
ribly wounded,  the  agony  of  mutilated  horses,  the  burst- 
ing of  shells,  the  hissing  scream  of  the  pom-pom,  and  the 
discordant  cries  of  men  fighting  an  impossible  fight. 

"There  is  no  pretense  here,"  he  reflected.  "It  is  life 
reduced  down  to  the  bare  elements.  There  is  no  room  for 
the  superficial  thing.  It's  all  business.  It's  all  stark 
human  nature." 

At  that  moment  his  eye  caught  one  of  those  white  mes- 
sages of  the  sky  flashing  the  old  bitter  promise,  "  We  shall 
reach  you  soon."  He  forgot  himself,  and  a  great  spirit 
welled  up  in  him. 

"Soon!"  The  light  in  the  sky  shot  its  message  over 
the  hills. 

That  was  it  —  the  px^esent,  not  the  past.     Here  was 
work,  the  one  thing  left  to  do. 
353 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"And  it  has  to  be  done,"  he  said  aloud,  as  he  walked 
on  swiftly,  a  spring  to  his  footstep.  Presently  he  mounted 
and  rode  away  across  the  veld.  Buried  in  his  thoughts, 
he  was  only  subconsciously  aware  of  what  he  saw  until, 
after  near  an  hour's  riding,  he  pulled  rein  at  the  door  of 
the  Stay  Awhile  Hospital,  which  was  some  miles  in  the 
rear  of  the  main  force. 

As  he  entered,  a  woman  in  a  nurse's  garb  passed  him 
swiftly.  He  scarcely  looked  at  her;  he  was  only  conscious 
that  she  was  in  great  haste.  Her  eyes  seemed  looking 
at  some  inner,  hidden  thing,  and,  though  they  glanced 
at  him,  appeared  not  to  see  him  or  to  realize  more  than 
that  some  one  was  passing.  But  suddenly,  to  both,  after 
they  had  passed,  there  came  an  arrest  of  attention.  There 
was  a  consciousness,  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
sight  of  the  eyes,  that  a  familiar  presence  had  gone  by. 
Each  turned  quickly,  and  their  eyes  came  back  from  re- 
garding the  things  of  the  imagination,  and  saw  each  other 
face  to  face.  The  nurse  gave  an  exclamation  of  pleasure 
and  ran  forward. 

Stafford  held  out  a  hand.  It  seemed  to  him,  as  he  did 
it,  that  it  stretched  across  a  great  black  gulf  and  found 
another  hand  in  the  darkness  beyond. 

"Al'mah!"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  protest  as  of  com- 
panionship. 

Of  all  those  he  had  left  behind,  this  was  the  one  being 
whom  to  meet  was  not  disturbing.  He  wished  to  encounter 
no  one  of  that  inner  circle  of  his  tragic  friendship ;  but  he 
realized  that  Al'mah  had  had  her  tragedy  too,  and  that 
her  suffering  could  not  be  less  than  his  own.  The  same 
dark  factor  had  shadowed  the  lives  of  both.  Adrian 
Fellowes  had  injured  them  both  through  the  same  woman, 
had  shaken,  if  not  shattered,  the  fabric  of  their  lives. 
However  much  they  two  were  blameworthy,  they  had 
been  sincere,  they  had  been  honourable  in  their  dishonour, 
they  had  been  "falsely  true."  They  were  derelicts  of  life, 
with  the  comradeship  of  despair  as  a  link  between  them. 
354 


MENACE    OF   THE    MOUNTAIN 

"Al'mah,"  he  said  again,  gently.  Then,  with  a  bitter 
humour,  he  added,  "You  here — I  thought  you  were  a 
prima  donna!" 

The  flicker  of  a  smile  crossed  her  odd,  fine,  strong  face. 
"This  is  grand  opera,"  she  said.  "It  is  the  Nibelungen 
Ring  of  England." 

"To  end  in  the  Twilight  of  the  Gods?"  he  rejoined 
with  a  hopeless  kind  of  smile. 

They  turned  to  the  outer  door  of  the  hospital  and 
stepped  into  the  night.  For  a  moment  they  stood  look- 
ing at  the  great  camp  far  away  to  right  and  left,  and  to 
the  lone  mountains  yonder,  where  the  Boer  commandoes 
held  the  passes  and  trained  their  merciless  armament 
upon  all  approaches.  Then  he  said  at  last:  "Why  have 
you  come  here?  You  had  your  work  in  England." 

"What  is  my  work?"  she  asked. 

"To  heal  the  wounded,"  he  answered. 

"I  am  trying  to  do  that,"  she  replied. 

"You  are  trying  to  heal  bodies,  but  it  is  a  bigger, 
greater  thing  to  heal  the  wounded  mind." 

"I  am  trying  to  do  that  too.  It  is  harder  than  the 
other." 

"Whose  minds  are  you  trying  to  heal?"  he  questioned, 
gently. 

"'Physician  heal  thyself  was  the  old  command,  wasn't 
it?  But  that  is  harder  still." 

"Must  one  always  be  a  saint  to  do  a  saintly  thing?" 
he  asked. 

"I  am  not  clever,"  she  replied,  "and  I  can't  make 
phrases.  But  must  one  always  be  a  sinner  to  do  a  wicked 
thing?  Can't  a  saint  do  a  wicked  thing,  and  a  sinner  do 
a  good  thing  without  being  called  the  one  or  the  other?" 

"I  don't  think  you  need  apologize  for  not  being  able  to 
make  phrases.  I  suppose  you'd  say  there  is  neither  abso- 
lute saintliness  nor  absolute  wickedness,  but  that  life  is 
helplessly  composite  of  both,  and  that  black  really  may  be 
white.  You  know  the  old  phrase,  'Killing  no  murder,'" 
355 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

She  seemed  to  stiffen,  and  her  lips  set  tightly  for  a 
minute;  then,  as  though  by  a  great  effort,  she  laughed 
bitterly. 

"Murder  isn't  always  killing,"  she  replied.  "Don't 
you  remember  the  protest  in  Macbeth,  'Time  was,  when 
the  brains  were  out  the  man  would  die'?"  Then,  with  a 
little  quick  gesture  towards  the  camp,  she  added,  "When 
you  think  of  to-day,  doesn't  it  seem  that  the  brains  are 
out,  and  yet  that  the  man  still  lives?  I'm  not  a  soldier, 
and  this  awful  slaughter  may  be  the  most  wonderful 
tactics,  but  it's  all  beyond  my  little  mind." 

"Your  littleness  is  not  original  enough  to  attract 
notice,"  he  replied  with  kindly  irony.  "There  is  almost 
an  epidemic  of  it.  Let  us  hope  we  shall  have  an  antidote 
soon." 

There  was  a  sudden  cry  from  inside  the  hospital. 
Al'mah  shut  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  clinched  her  fingers, 
and  became  very  pale;  then  she  recovered  herself,  and 
turned  her  face  towards  the  door,  as  though  waiting  for 
some  one  to  come  out. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked.     "Some  bad  case?" 

"Yes — very  bad,"  she  replied. 

"One  you've  been  attending?" 

"Yes." 

"What  arm — the  artillery?"  he  asked  with  sudden 
interest. 

"Yes,  the  artillery." 

He  turned  towards  the  door  of  the  hospital  again. 
"One  of  my  men?  What  battery?  Do  you  know?" 

"Not  yours — Schiller's." 

"Schiller's!    A  Boer?" 

She  nodded.  "A  Boer  spy,  caught  by  Boer  bullets  as 
he  was  going  back." 

"When  was  that?" 

"This  morning  early." 

"The  little  business  at  Wortmann's  Drift?" 

She  nodded.     ' '  Yes,  there. ' ' 
356 


MENACE    OF    THE    MOUNTAIN 

"I  don't  quite  understand.  Was  he  in  our  lines — a 
Boer  spy?" 

"Yes.  But  he  wore  British  uniform,  he  spoke  English. 
He  was  an  Englishman  once." 

Suddenly  she  came  up  close  to  him,  and  looked  into  his 
face  steadily.  "  I  will  tell  you  all,"  she  said  scarce  above 
a  whisper.  "He  came  to  spy,  but  he  came  also  to  see 
his  wife.  She  had  written  to  ask  him  not  to  join  the 
Boers,  as  he  said  he  meant  to  do;  or,  if  he  had,  to  leave 
them  and  join  his  own  people.  He  came,  but  not  to  join 
his  fellow-countrymen.  He  came  to  get  money  from  his 
wife;  and  he  came  to  spy." 

An  illuminating  thought  shot  into  Stafford's  mind.  He 
remembered  something  that  Byng  once  told  him. 

"His  wife  is  a  nurse?"  he  asked  in  a  low  tone. 

"She  is  a  nurse." 

"She  knew,  then,  that  he  was  a  spy?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  she  knew.  I  suppose  she  ought  to  be  tried  by 
court-martial.  She  did  not  expose  him.  She  gave  him 
a  chance  to  escape.  But  he  was  shot  as  he  tried  to  reach 
the  Boer  lines." 

"And  was  brought  back  here  to  his  wife — to  you! 
Did  he  let  them" — he  nodded  towards  the  hospital — 
"know  he  was  your  husband?" 

When  she  spoke  again  her  voice  showed  strain,  but  it 
did  not  tremble.  "Of  course.  He  would  not  spare  me. 
He  never  did.  It  was  always  like  that." 

He  caught  her  hand  in  his.  "  You  have  courage  enough 
for  a  hundred,"  he  said. 

"  I  have  suffered  enough  for  a  hundred,"  she  responded. 

Again  that  sharp  cry  rang  out,  and  again  she  turned 
anxiously  towards  the  door. 

"I  came  to  South  Africa  on  the  chance  of  helping  him 
in  some  way,"  she  replied.  "It  came  to  me  that  he  might 
need  me." 

"You  paid  the  price  of  his  life  once  to  Kruger — after 
the  Raid,  I've  heard,"  he  said. 
357 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

"Yes,  I  owed  him  that,  and  as  much  more  as  was  pos- 
sible," she  responded  with  a  dark,  pained  look. 

"His  life  is  in  danger — an  operation?"  he  questioned. 

"Yes.  There  is  one  chance;  but  they  could  not  give 
him  an  anaesthetic,  and  they  would  not  let  me  stay  with 
him.  They  forced  me  away — out  here."  She  appeared 
to  listen  again.  "That  was  his  voice — that  crying,"  she 
added  presently. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better  he  should  go?  If  he  recovers 
there  would  only  be — " 

"Oh  yes,  to  be  tried  as  a  spy — a  renegade  Englishman! 
But  he  would  rather  live  in  spite  of  that,  if  it  was  only  for 
an  hour." 

"To  love  life  so  much  as  that — a  spy!"  Stafford  re- 
flected. 

' '  Not  so  much  love  of  life  as  fear  of — ' '  She  stopped  short . 

"To  fear — silence  and  peace!"  he  remarked  darkly, 
with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders.  Then  he  added:  "Tell 
me,  if  he  does  not  die,  and  if — if  he  is  pardoned  by  any 
chance,  do  you  mean  to  live  with  him  again?" 

A  bitter  laugh  broke  from  her.  "How  do  I  know? 
What  does  any  woman  know  what. she  will  do  until  the 
situation  is  before  her!  She  may  mean  to  do  one  thing 
and  do  the  complete  opposite.  She  may  mean  to  hate, 
and  will  end  by  loving.  She  may  mean  to  kiss  and  will 
end  by  killing.  She  may  kiss  and  kill  too  all  in  one 
moment,  and  still  not  be  inconsistent.  She  would  have 
the  logic  of  a  woman.  How  do  I  know  what  I  would 
do — what  I  will  do!" 

The  door  of  the  hospital  opened.  A  surgeon  came  out, 
and  seeing  Al'mah,  moved  towards  the  two.  Stafford 
went  forward  hurriedly,  but  Al'mah  stood  like  one  trans- 
fixed. There  was  a  whispered  word,  and  then  Stafford 
came  back  to  her. 

"You  will  not  need  to  do  anything,"  he  said. 

"He  is  gone — like  that!"  she  whispered  in  an  awed 
voice.  "Death,  death — so  many  die!"  She  shuddered. 
358 


MENACE   OF   THE    MOUNTAIN 

Stafford  passed  her  arm  through  his,  and  drew  her 
towards  the  door  of  the  hospital. 

A  half-hour  later  Stafford  emerged  again  from  the 
hospital,  his  head  bent  in  thought.  He  rode  slowly  back 
to  his  battery,  unconscious  of  the  stir  of  life  round  him, 
of  the  shimmering  white  messages  to  the  besieged  town 
beyond  the  hills.  He  was  thinking  of  the  tragedy  of  the 
woman  he  had  left  tearless  and  composed  beside  the  bed- 
side of  the  man  who  had  so  vilely  used  her.  He  was 
reflecting  how  her  life,  and  his  own,  and  the  lives  of  at 
least  three  others,  were  so  tangled  together  that  what 
twisted  the  existence  of  one  disturbed  all.  In  one  sense 
the  woman  he  had  just  left  in  the  hospital  was  nothing 
to  him,  and  yet  now  she  seemed  to  be  the  only  living 
person  to  whom  he  was  drawn. 

He  remembered  the  story  he  had  once  heard  in  Vienna 
of  a  man  and  a  woman  who  both  had  suffered  betrayal, 
who  both  had  no  longer  a  single  illusion  left,  who  had 
no  love  for  each  other  at  all,  in  whom  indeed  love  was 
dead — a  mangled  murdered  thing;  and  yet  who  went 
away  to  Corfu  together,  and  there  at  length  found  a 
pathway  out  of  despair  in  the  depths  of  the  sea.  Between 
these  two  there  had  never  been  even  the  faint  shadow 
of  romance  or  passion;  but  in  the  terrible  mystery  of 
pain  and  humiliation,  they  had  drawn  together  to  help 
each  other,  through  a  breach  of  all  social  law,  in  pity 
of  each  other.  He  apprehended  the  real  meaning  of  the 
story  when  Vienna  was  alive  with  it,  but  he  understood 
far,  far  better  now. 

A  pity  as  deep  as  any  feeling  he  had  ever  known  had 
come  to  him  as  he  stood  with  Al'mah  beside  the  bed  of 
her  dead  renegade  man;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  they 
two  also  might  well  bury  themselves  in  the  desert  to- 
gether, and  minister  to  each  other's  despair.  It  was  only 
the  swift  thought  of  a  moment,  which  faded  even  as  it  saw 
the  light ;  but  it  had  its  origin  in  that  last  nickering  sense 
24  359 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

of  human  companionship  which  dies  in  the  atmosphere 
of  despair.  "Every  man  must  live  his  dark  hours  alone," 
a  broken-down  actor  once  said  to  Stafford  as  he  tried  to 
cheer  him  when  the  last  thing  he  cared  for  had  been  taken 
from  him — his  old,  faded,  misshapen  wife;  when  no  faces 
sent  warm  glances  to  him  across  the  garish  lights.  "It 
is  no  use,"  this  Roscius  had  said;  "every  man  must  live 
his  dark  hours  alone." 

That  very  evening,  after  the  battle  of  the  Dreitval, 
Jigger,  Stafford's  trumpeter,  had  said  a  thing  to  him  which 
had  struck  a  chord  that  rang  in  empty  chambers  of  his  be- 
ing. He  had  found  Jigger  sitting  disconsolate  beside  a  gun, 
which  was  yet  grimy  and  piteous  with  the  blood  of  men 
who  had  served  it,  and  he  asked  the  lad  what  his  trouble 
was. 

In  reply  Jigger  had  said,  "When  it  'it  'm  'e  curled  up 
like  a  bit  o'  shaving.  An'  when  I  done  what  I  could  'e 
says,  'It's  a  speshul  for  one  now,  an'  it's  lonely  goin',' 
'e  says.  When  I  give  'im  a  drink  'e  says,  'It  'd  do  me 
more  good  later,  little  'un' ;  an'  'e  never  said  no  more  ex- 
cept, 'One  at  a  time  is  the  order — only  one.'" 

Not  even  his  supper  had  lifted  the  cloud  from  Jigger's 
face,  and  Stafford  had  left  the  lad  trying  to  compose  a 
letter  to  the  mother  of  the  dead  man,  who  had  been  an 
especial  favourite  with  the  trumpeter  from  the  slums. 

Stafford  was  roused  from  his  reflections  by  the  grind- 
ing, rumbling  sound  of  a  train.  He  turned  his  face  tow- 
ards the  railway  line. 

"A  troop-train — more  food  for  the  dragons,"  he  said 
to  himself.  He  could  not  see  the  train  itself,  but  he 
could  see  the  head-light  of  the  locomotive,  and  he  could 
hear  its  travail  as  it  climbed  slowly  the  last  incline  to 
the  camp. 

"  Who  comes  there!"  he  said  aloud,  and  in  his  mind  there 

swept  a  premonition  that  the  old  life  was  finding  him 

out,  that  its  invisible  forces  were  converging  upon  him. 

But  did  it  matter?     He  knew  in  his  soul  that  he  was 

360 


MENACE    OF    THE    MOUNTAIN 

now  doing  the  right  thing,  that  he  had  come  out  in  the 
open  where  all  the  archers  of  penalty  had  a  fair  target 
for  their  arrows.  He  wished  to  be  "Free  among  the  dead 
that  are  wounded  and  that  lie  in  the  grave  and  are  out  oj 
remembrance;"  but  he  would  do  no  more  to  make  it  so 
than  tens  of  thousands  of  other  men  were  doing  on  these 
battle-fields. 

"Who  comes  there!"  he  said  again,  his  eyes  upon  the 
white,  round  light  in  the  distance,  and  he  stood  still  to 
try  and  make  out  the  black,  winding,  groaning  thing. 

Presently  he  heard  quick  footsteps. 

A  small,  alert  figure  stopped  short,  a  small,  abrupt 
hand  saluted.  "The  General  Commanding  'as  sent  for 
you,  sir." 

It  was  trumpeter  Jigger  of  the  Artillery. 

"Are  you  the  General's  orderly,  then?"  asked  Stafford 
quizzically. 

"The  orderly's  gone  w'ere  'e  thought  'e'd  find  you,  and 
I've  come  w'ere  I  know'd  you'd  be,  sir." 

"Where  did  he  think  he'd  find  me?" 

"Wivthe  'osses,  sir." 

A  look  of  gratification  crossed  Stafford's  face.  He  was 
well  known  in  the  army  as  one  who  looked  after  his  horses 
and  his  men.  "And  what  made  you  think  I  was  at  the 
hospital,  Jigger?" 

"Becos  you'd  been  to  the  'osses,  sir." 

"Did  you  tell  the  General's  orderly  that?" 

"No,  your  gryce — no,  sir,"  he  added  quickly,  and  a 
flush  of  self-reproach  came  to  his  face,  for  he  prided  him- 
self on  being  a  real  disciplinarian,  a  disciple  of  the  correct 
thing.  "I  thought  I'd  like  'im  to  see  our  'osses,  an'  'ow 
you  done  'em,  an'  I'd  find  you  as  quick  as  'e  could,  wiv  a 
bit  to  the  good  p'r'aps." 

Stafford  smiled.     "Off  you  go,  then.     Find  that  or- 
derly.    Say,  Colonel  Stafford's  compliments  to  the  Gen- 
eral Commanding  and  he  will  report  himself  at  once. 
See  that  you  get  it  straight,  trumpeter." 
361 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Jigger  would  rather  die  than  not  get  it  straight,  and 
his  salute  made  that  quite  plain. 

"It's  made  a  man  of  him,  anyhow,"  Stafford  said  to 
himself,  as  he  watched  the  swiftly  disappearing  figure. 
"He's  as  straight  as  a  nail,  body  and  mind — poor  little 
devil.  .  .  .  How  far  away  it  all  seems!" 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  was  standing  beside  the 
troop-train  which  he  had  seen  labouring  to  its  goal.  It  was 
carrying  the  old  regiment  of  the  General  Officer  Com- 
manding, who  had  sent  Stafford  to  its  Colonel  with  an 
important  message.  As  the  two  officers  stood  together 
watching  the  troops  detrain  and  make  order  out  of  the 
chaos  of  baggage  and  equipment,  Stafford's  attention  was 
drawn  to  a  woman  some  little  distance  away,  giving  di- 
rections about  her  impedimenta. 

"Who  is  the  lady?"  he  asked,  while  in  his  mind  was 
a  sensible  stir  of  recognition. 

"Ah,  there's  something  like  the  real  thing!"  his  com- 
panion replied.  "She  is  doing  a  capital  bit  of  work. 
She  and  Lady  Tynemouth  have  got  a  hospital-ship  down 
at  Durban.  She's  come  to  link  it  up  better  with  the 
camp.  It's  Rudyard  Byng's  wife.  They're  both  at  it 
out  here." 

"Who  comes  there!1'  Stafford  had  exclaimed  a  moment 
before  with  a  sense  of  premonition. 

Jasmine  had  come. 

He  drew  back  in  the  shadow  as  she  turned  round  towards 
them. 

"To  the  Stay  Awhile — right !"  he  heard  a  private  say  in 
response  to  her  directions. 

He  saw  her  face,  but  not  clearly.  He  had  glimpse  of 
a  Jasmine  not  so  daintily  pretty  as  of  old,  not  so  much  of 
a  dresden  -  china  shepherdess;  but  with  the  face  of  a 
woman  who,  watching  the  world  with  understanding  eyes, 
and  living  with  an  understanding  heart,  had  taken  on 
something  of  the  mysterious  depths  of  the  Life  behind 
362 


MENACE    OF    THE    MOUNTAIN 

life.  It  was  only  a  glimpse  he  had,  but  it  was  enough. 
It  was  more  than  enough. 

"Where  is  Byng?"  he  asked  his  fellow-officer. 

"He's  been  up  there  with  Tain's  Brigade  for  a  fort- 
night. He  was  in  Kimberley,  but  got  out  before  the  in- 
vestment, went  to  Cape  Town,  and  came  round  here — to 
be  near  his  wife,  I  suppose." 

"He  is  soldiering,  then?" 

"He  was  a  Colonel  in  the  Rand  Rifles  once.  He's 
with  the  South  African  Horse  now  in  command  of  the 
regiment  attached  to  Tain.  Tain's  out  of  your  beat — 
away  on  the  right  flank  there." 

Presently  Stafford  saw  Jasmine  look  in  their  direction; 
then,  on  seeing  Stafford's  companion,  came  forward  hastily. 
The  Colonel  left  Stafford  and  went  to  meet  her. 

A  moment  afterwards,  she  turned  and  looked  at  Stafford. 
Her  face  was  now  deadly  pale,  but  it  showed  no  agitation. 
She  was  in  the  light  of  an  electric  lamp,  and  he  was  in  the 
shadow.  For  one  second  only  she  gazed  at  him,  then  she 
turned  and  moved  away  to  the  cape-cart  awaiting  her. 
The  Colonel  saw  her  in,  then  returned  to  Stafford. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  and  be  introduced?"  the  Colonel 
asked.  "  I  told  her  who  you  were." 

"Hospital-ships  are  not  in  my  line,"  Stafford  answered 
casually.  "Women  and  war  don't  go  together." 

"She's  a  nurse,  she's  not  a  woman,"  was  the  paradoxical 
reply. 

"  She  knows  Byng  is  here?" 

"I  suppose  so.  It  looks  like  a  clever  bit  of  strategy — 
junction  of  forces.  There's  a  lot  of  women  at  home  would 
like  the  chance  she  has — at  a  little  less  cost." 

"What  is  the  cost?" 

"Well,  that  ship  didn't  cost  less  than  a  hundred  thou- 
sand pounds." 

"Is  that  all?" 

The  Colonel  looked  at  Stafford  in  surprise:  but  Staf- 
ford was  not  thinking  of  the  coin. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

"AND  NEVER  THE  TWAIN  SHALL  MEET!" 

AS  the  cape -cart  conveying  Jasmine  to  the  hospital 
/~\  moved  away  from  the  station,  she  settled  down 
into  the  seat  beside  the  driver  with  the  helplessness  of 
one  who  had  received  a  numbing  blow.  Her  body 
swayed  as  though  she  would  faint,  and  her  eyes  closed, 
and  stayed  closed  for  so  long  a  time,  that  Corporal 
Shorter,  who  drove  the  rough  little  pair  of  Argentines, 
said  to  her  sympathetically: 

"  It's  all  right,  ma'am.  We'll  be  there  in  a  jiffy.  Don't 
give  way." 

This  friendly  solicitude  had  immediate  effect.  Jasmine 
sat  up,  and  thereafter  held  herself  as  though  she  was  in 
her  yellow  salon  yonder  in  London. 

"Thank  you,"  she  replied  serenely  to  Corporal  Shorter. 
"It  was  a  long,  tiring  journey,  and  I  let  myself  go  for  a 
moment." 

"A  good  night's  rest  '11  do  you  a  lot  of  good,  ma'am," 
he  ventured.  Then  he  added,  "Beggin'  pardon,  ain't  you 
Mrs.  Colonel  Rudyard  Byng?" 

She  turned  and  looked  at  the  man  inquiringly.  "Yes, 
I  am  Mrs.  Byng." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am.  Now  how  did  I  know?  Why," 
he  chuckled,  "I  saw  a  big  B  on  your  hand-bag,  and  I 
knew  you  was  from  the  hospital-ship — they  told  me  that  at 
the  Stay  Awhile;  and  the  rest  was  easy,  ma'am.  I  had 
a  mate  along  o'  your  barge.  He  was  one  of  them  the 
Boers  got  at  Talana  Hill.  They  chipped  his  head-piece 
nicely — just  like  the  4.7*8  flay  the  kopjes  up  there.  My 
364 


"NEVER   THE   TWAIN    SHALL    MEET" 

mate's  been  writing  to  me  about  you.  We're  a  long  way 
from  home,  Joey  and  me,  and  a  bit  o'  kindness  is  a  bit  of 
all  right  to  us." 

"Where  is  your  home?"  Jasmine  asked,  her  fatigue  and 
oppression  lifting. 

He  chuckled  as  though  it  were  a  joke,  while  he  answered: 
"Australia  onct  and  first.  My  mate,  Joey  Clynes,  him 
that's  on  your  ship,  we  was  both  born  up  beyond  Bendigo. 
When  we  cut  loose  from  the  paternal  leash,  so  to  speak, 
we  had  a  bit  of  boundary-riding,  rabbit-killing,  shearing 
and  sun-downing — all  no  good,  year  by  year.  Then  we 
had  a  bit  o'  luck  and  found  a  mob  of  warrigals — horses  run 
wild,  you  know.  We  stalked  'em  for  days  in  the  drought- 
time  to  a  water-course,  and  got  'em,  and  coaxed  'em  along 
till  the  floods  come;  then  we  sold  'em,  and  with  the  hard 
tin  shipped  for  to  see  the  world.  So  it  was  as  of  old. 
And  by  and  by  we  found  ourselves  down  here,  same  as 
all  the  rest,  puttin'  in  a  bit  o'  time  for  the  Flag." 

Jasmine  turned  on  him  one  of  those  smiles  which  had 
made  her  so  many  friends  in  the  past — a  smile  none  the 
less  alluring  because  it  had  lost  that  erstime  flavour  of 
artifice  and  lure  which,  however  hidden,  had  been  part 
of  its  power.  Now  it  was  accompanied  by  no  slight 
drooping  of  the  eyelids.  It  brightened  a  look  which  was 
direct  and  natural. 

"  It's  a  good  thing  to  have  lived  in  the  wide  distant  spaces 
of  the  world,"  she  responded.  "A  man  couldn't  easily  be 
mean  or  small  where  life  is  so  simple  and  so  large." 

His  face  flushed  with  pleasure.  She  was  so  easy  to  get 
on  with,  he  said  to  himself;  and  she  certainly  had  a  won- 
derfully kind  smile.  But  he  felt  too  that  she  needed 
greater  wisdom,  and  he  was  ready  to  give  it — a  friendly 
characteristic  of  the  big  open  spaces  "where  life  is  so 
simple  and  so  large." 

"Well,  that  might  be  so  'long  o'  some  continents,"  he 
remarked,  "but  it  wasn't  so  where  Joey  Clynes  and  me 
was  nourished,  so  to  speak.  I  tripped  up  on  a  good  many 
365 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

mean  things  from  Bendigo  to  Thargomindah  and  back 
around.  The  back-blocks  has  its  tricks  as  well  as  the 
towns,  as  you  would  see  if  you  come  across  a  stock-rider 
with  a  cheque  to  be  broke  in  his  hand.  I've  seen  six 
months'  wages  go  bung  in  a  day  with  a  stock-rider  on 
the  gentle  jupe.  But  again,  perad venture,  I've  seen  a 
man  that  had  lost  ten  thousand  sheep  tramp  fifty  miles 
in  a  blazing  sun  with  a  basket  of  lambs  on  his  back, 
savin'  them  two  switherin'  little  papillions  worth  nothin' 
at  all,  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life — just  as  mates  have  done 
here  on  this  salamanderin'  veld;  same  as  Colonel  Byng 
did  to-day  along  o'  Wortmann's  Drift." 

Jasmine  had  been  trying  to  ask  a  question  concerning 
her  husband  ever  since  the  man  had  mentioned  his  name, 
and  had  not  been  able  to  do  so.  She  had  never  spoken 
of  him  directly  to  any  one  since  she  had  left  England ;  had 
never  heard  from  him;  had  written  him  no  word;  was,  so 
far  as  the  outer  acts  of  life  were  concerned,  as  distant  from 
him  as  Corporal  Shorter  was  from  his  native  Bendigo. 
She  had  been  busy  as  she  had  never  before  been  in  her 
life,  in  a  big,  comprehensive,  useful  way.  It  had  seemed 
to  her  in  England,  as  she  carried  through  the  negotiations 
for  the  Valeria ,  fitted  it  out  for  the  service  it  was  to  render, 
directed  its  administration  over  the  heads  of  the  committee 
appointed,  for  form's  sake,  to  assist  Lady  Tynemouth  and 
herself,  that  the  spirit  of  her  grandfather  was  over  her, 
watching  her,  inspiring  her.  This  had  become  almost  an 
obsession  with  her.  Her  grandfather  had  had  belief  in 
her,  delight  in  her;  and  now  the  innumerable  talks  she 
had  had  with  him,  as  to  the  way  he  had  done  things, 
gave  her  confidence  and  a  key  to  what  she  had  to  do. 
It  was  the  first  real  work;  for  what  she  did  for  Ian 
Stafford  in  diplomacy  was  only  playing  upon  the  weak- 
ness of  human  nature  with  a  skilled  intelligence,  with 
an  instinctive  knowledge  of  men  and  a  capacity  for 
managing  them.  The  first  real  pride  she  had  ever  felt 
soothed  her  angry  soul. 

366 


"NEVER  THE   TWAIN    SHALL   MEET'1 

Her  grandfather  had  been  more  in  her  mind  than  any 
one  else — than  either  Rudyard  or  Ian  Stafford.  Towards 
both  of  these  her  mind  had  slowly  and  almost  un- 
consciously changed,  and  she  wished  to  think  about 
neither.  There  had  been  a  revolution  in  her  nature, 
and  all  her  tragic  experience,  her  emotions,  and  her 
faculties,  had  been  shaken  into  a  crucible  where  the  fire 
of  pain  and  revolt  burned  on  and  on  and  on.  From  the 
crucible  there  had  come  as  yet  no  precipitation  of  life's 
elements,  and  she  scarcely  knew  what  was  in  her  heart. 
She  tried  to  smother  every  thought  concerning  the  past. 
She  did  not  seek  to  find  her  bearings,  or  to  realize  in  what 
country  of  the  senses  and  the  emotions  she  was  travelling. 

One  thing  was  present,  however,  at  times,  and  when  it 
rushed  over  her  in  its  fulness,  it  shook  her  as  the  wind 
shakes  the  leaf  on  a  tree — a  sense  of  indignation,  of  anger, 
or  resentment.  Against  whom?  Against  all.  Against 
Rudyard,  against  Ian  Stafford;  but  most  of  all,  a  thousand 
times  most  against  a  dead  man,  who  had  been  swept  out 
of  life,  leaving  behind  a  memory  which  could  sting 
murderously. 

Now,  when  she  heard  of  Rudyard's  bravery  at  Wort- 
mann's  Drift,  a  curious  thrill  of  excitement  ran  through 
her  veins,  or  it  would  be  truer  to  say  that  a  sensation  new 
and  strange  vibrated  in  her  blood.  She  had  heard  many 
tales  of  valour  in  this  war,  and  more  than  one  hero  of  the 
Victoria  Cross  had  been  in  her  charge  at  Durban;  but  as 
a  child's  heart  might  beat  faster  at  the  first  words  of  a 
wonderful  story,  so  she  felt  a  faint  suffocation  in  the 
throat  and  her  brooding  eyes  took  on  a  brighter,  a  more 
objective  look,  as  she  heard  the  tale  of  Wortmann's  Drift. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  she  said,  yet  turned  her  head  away 
from  her  eager  historian. 

Corporal  Shorter's  words  were  addressed  to  the  small- 
est pink  ear  he  had  ever  seen  except  on  a  baby,  but  he 
was  only  dimly  conscious  of  that.      He  was  full  of  a 
man's  pride  in  a  man's  deed. 
367 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"Well,  it  was  like  this,"  he  recited.  "Gunter's  horse 
bolted — Dick  Gunter's  in  the  South  African  Horse  same 
as  Colonel  Byng  —  his  lot.  Old  Gunter's  horse  gits 
away  with  him  into  the  wide  open.  I  s'pose  there 'd 
been  a  hunderd  Boers  firing  at  the  runaway  for  three 
minutes,  and  at  last  off  comes  Gunter.  He  don't  stir 
for  a  minute  or  more,  then  we  see  him  pick  himself 
up  a  bit  quick,  but  settle  back  again.  And  while  we  was 
lookin'  and  tossin'  pennies  like  as  to  his  chances  out  there,  a 
grey  New  Zealand  mare  nips  out  across  the  veld  stretchin' 
every  string.  We  knowed  her  all  right,  that  grey  mare — a 
regular  Mrs.  Mephisto,  w'ich  belongs  to  Colonel  Byng. 
Do  the  Boojers  fire  at  him?  Don't  they!  We  could  see 
the  spots  of  dust  where  the  bullets  struck,  spittin', 
spittin',  spittin',  and  Lord  knows  how  many  hunderd 
more  there  was  that  didn't  hit  the  ground.  An'  the  grey 
mare  gets  there.  As  cool  as  a  granadillar,  down  drops 
Colonel  Byng  beside  old  Gunter;  down  goes  the  grey 
mare — Colonel  Byng  had  taught  her  that  trick,  like  the 
Roosian  Cossack  hosses.  Then  up  on  her  rolls  old  Gunter, 
an'  up  goes  Colonel  Byng,  and  the  grey  mare  switchin' 
her  bobtail,  as  if  she  was  havin'  a  bit  of  mealies  in  the 
middle  o'  the  day.  But  when  they  was  both  on,  then  the 
band  begun  to  play.  Men  was  fightin'  of  course,  but  it 
looked  as  if  the  whole  smash  stopped  to  see  what  the  end 
would  be.  It  was  a  real  pretty  race,  an'  the  grey  mare 
takin'  it  as  free  as  if  she  was  carryin'  a  little  bit  of  a 
pipkin  like  me  instead  of  twenty-six  stone.  She's  a 
flower,  that  grey  mare !  Once  she  stumbled,  an'  we  knowed 
it  wasn't  an  ant-bear's  hole  she'd  found  in  the  veld,  and 
that  she'd  been  hurt.  But  they  know,  them  hosses,  that 
they  must  do  as  their  Baases  do;  and  they  fight  right  on. 
She  come  home  with  the  two  all  right.  She  switched 
round  a  corner  and  over  a  nose  of  land  where  that  cross- 
fire couldn't  hit  the  lot;  an'  there  was  the  three  of  'em 
at  'ome  for  a  cup  o*  tea.  Why,  ma'am,  that  done  the 
army  as  much  good  to-day,  that  little  go-to-the-devil, 
368 


"NEVER   THE   TWAIN    SHALL    MEET" 

you  mud-suckers!  as  though  we'd  got  Schuster's  Hill. 
'Twas  what  we  needed — an'  we  got  it.  It  took  our  eyes 
off  the  nasty  little  fact  that  half  of  a  regiment  was  down, 
an'  the  other  half  with  their  job  not  done  as  it  was  ordered. 
It  made  the  S.  A.'s  and  the  Lynchesters  and  the  Gessex 
lot  laugh.  Old  Gunter's  all  right.  He's  in  the  Stay 
Awhile  now.  You'll  be  sure  to  see  him.  And  Colonel 
Byng's  all  right,  too,  except  a  little  bit  o'  splinter — " 

"A  bit  of  splinter — "  Her  voice  was  almost  peremp- 
tory. 

"A  chip  off  his  wrist  like,  but  he  wasn't  thinkin'  of  that 
when  he  got  back.  He  was  thinkin'  of  the  grey  mare; 
and  she  was  hit  in  three  places,  but  not  to  mention.  One 
bullet  cut  through  her  ear  and  through  Colonel  Byng's 
hat  as  he  stooped  over  her  neck;  but  the  luck  was  with 
them.  They  was  born  to  do  a  longer  trek  together.  A 
little  bit  of  the  same  thing  in  both  of  'em,  so  to  speak. 
The  grey  mare  has  a  temper  like  a  hunderd  wildcats,  and 
Colonel  Byng  can  let  himself  go  too,  as  you  perhaps  know, 
ma'am.  We've  seen  him  let  loose  sometimes  when  there 
was  shirkers  about,  but  he's  all  right  inside  his  vest.  And 
he's  a  good  feeder.  His  men  get  their  tucker  all  right. 
He  knows  when  to  shut  his  eyes.  He's  got  a  way  to 
make  his  bunch — and  they're  the  hardest-bit  bunch  in 
the  army — do  anything  he  wants  'em  to.  He's  as  hard 
himself  as  ever  is,  but  he's  all  right  underneath  the 
epidermotis." 

All  at  once  there  flashed  before  Jasmine's  eyes  the 
picture  of  Rudyard  driving  Krool  out  of  the  house  in 
Park  Lane  with  a  sjambok.  She  heard  again  the  thud  of 
the  rhinoceros- whip  on  the  cringing  back  of  the  Boer;  she 
heard  the  moan  of  the  victim  as  he  stumbled  across  the 
threshold  into  the  street;  and  again  she  felt  that  sense  of 
suffocation,  that  excitement  which  the  child  feels  on  the 
brink  of  a  wonderful  romance,  the  once-upon-a-time 
moment. 

They  were  nearing  the  hospital.  The  driver  silently 
369 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

pointed  to  it.  He  saw  that  he  had  made  an  impression, 
and  he  was  content  with  it.  He  smiled  to  himself. 

"Is  Colonel  Byng  in  the  camp?"  she  asked. 

"He's  over — 'way  over,  miles  and  miles,  on  the  left 
wing  with  Kearey's  brigade  now.  But  old  Gunter's  here, 
and  you're  sure  to  see  Colonel  Byng  soon — well,  I  should 
think." 

She  had  no  wish  to  see  Colonel  Byng  soon.  Three  days 
would  suffice  to  do  what  she  wished  here,  and  then  she 
would  return  to  Durban  to  her  work  there — to  Alice  Tyne- 
mouth,  whose  friendship  and  wonderful  tactfulness  had 
helped  her  in  indefinable  ways,  as  a  more  obvious  sym- 
pathy never  could  have  done.  She  would  have  resented 
one  word  which  would  have  suggested  that  a  tragedy 
was  slowly  crushing  out  her  life. 

Never  a  woman  in  the  world  was  more  alone.  She 
worked  and  smiled  with  eyes  growing  sadder,  yet  with  a 
force  hardening  in  her  which  gave  her  face  a  charac- 
ter it  never  had  before.  Work  had  come  at  the  right  mo- 
ment to  save  her  from  the  wild  consequences  of  a  nature 
maddened  by  a  series  of  misfortunes  and  penalties,  for 
which  there  had  been  no  warning  and  no  prepara- 
tion. 

She  was  not  ready  for  a  renewal  of  the  past.  Only  a 
few  minutes  before  she  had  been  brought  face  to  face  with 
Ian  Stafford,  had  seen  him  look  at  her  out  of  the  shadow 
there  at  the  station,  as  though  she  was  an  infinite  distance 
away  from  him;  and  she  had  realized  with  overwhelming 
force  how  changed  her  world  was.  Ian  Stafford,  who  but 
a  few  short  months  ago  had  held  her  in  his  arms  and  whis- 
pered unforgettable  things,  now  looked  at  her  as  one  looks 
at  the  image  of  a  forgotten  thing.  She  recalled  his  last 
words  to  her  that  awful  day  when  Rudyard  had  read 
the  fatal  letter,  and  the  world  had  fallen: 

"Nothing  can  set  things  right  between  you  and  me,  Jas- 
mine," he  had  said.  "But  tliere  is  Rudyard.  You  must 
help  him  through.  He  heard  scandal  about  Mennaval  fast 
370 


"NEVER  THE  TWAIN    SHALL   MEET" 

night  at  De  Lancy  Scovel's.  He  didn't  believe  it.  It  rests 
with  you  to  give  it  all  the  lie.  Good-bye." 

That  had  been  the  end— the  black,  bitter  end.  Since 
then  Ian  had  never  spoken  a  word  to  her,  nor  she  to  him; 
but  he  had  stood  there  in  the  shadow  at  the  station  like 
a  ghost,  reproachful,  unresponsive,  indifferent.  She  re- 
called now  the  day  when,  after  three  years'  parting,  she 
had  left  him  cool,  indifferent,  and  self-contained  in  the 
doorway  of  the  sweet-shop  in  Regent  Street;  how  she 
had  entered  her  carriage,  had  clinched  her  hands,  and 
cried  with  wilful  passion:  "  He  shall  not  treat  me  so.  He 
shall  show  some  feeling.  He  shall!  He  shall!" 

Here  was  indifference  again,  but  of  another  kind.  Hers 
was  not  a  woman's  vanity,  in  fury  at  being  despised. 
Vanity,  maybe,  was  still  there,  but  so  slight  that  it  made 
no  contrast  to  the  proud  turmoil  of  a  nature  which  had 
been  humiliated  beyond  endurance;  which,  for  its  mis- 
takes, had  received  accruing  penalties  as  precise  as 
though  they  had  been  catalogued;  which  had  waked  to 
find  that  a  whole  lifetime  had  been  an  error;  and  that 
it  had  no  anchor  in  any  set  of  principles  or  impelling 
habits. 

And  over  all  there  hung  the  shadow  of  a  man's  death, 
with  its  black  suspicion.  When  Ian  Stafford  looked  at 
her  from  the  shadow  of  the  railway-station,  the  question 
had  flashed  into  his  mind,  Did  she  kill  him?  Around  Adrian 
Fellowes'  death  there  hung  a  cloud  of  mystery  which 
threw  a  sinister  shadow  on  the  path  of  three  people.  In 
the  middle  of  the  night,  Jasmine  started  from  her  sleep 
with  the  mystery  of  the  man's  death  torturing  her,  and 
with  the  shuddering  question,  Which?  on  her  fevered  lips. 
Was  it  her  husband — was  it  Ian  Stafford  ?  As  he  galloped 
over  the  veld,  or  sat  with  his  pipe  beside  the  camp-fire, 
Rudyard  Byng  was  also  drawn  into  the  frigid  gloom  of 
the  ugly  thought,  and  his  mind  asked  the  question,  Did 
she  kill  him?  It  was  as  though  each  who  had  suffered 
from  the  man  in  life  was  destined  to  be  menaced  by  his 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

shade,  till  it  should  be  exorcised  by  that  person  who  had 
taken  the  useless  life,  saying,  "  It  was  I;  I  did  it!" 

As  Jasmine  entered  the  hospital,  it  seemed  to  her  ex- 
cited imagination  as  though  she  was  entering  a  House  of 
Judgment:  as  though  here  in  a  court  of  everlasting  equity 
she  would  meet  those  who  had  played  their  vital  parts 
in  her  life. 

What  if  Rudyard  was  here!  What  if  in  these  few  days 
while  she  was  to  be  here  he  was  to  cross  her  path !  What 
would  she  say?  What  would  she  do?  What  could  be 
said  or  done?  Bitterness  and  resentment  and  dark 
suspicion  were  in  her  mind — and  in  his.  Her  pride  was 
less  wilful  and  tempestuous  than  on  the  day  when  she 
drove  him  from  her ;  when  he  said  things  which  flayed  her 
soul,  and  left  her  body  as  though  it  had  been  beaten  with 
rods.  Her  bitterness,  her  resentment  had  its  origin  in 
the  fact  that  he  did  not  understand — and  'yet  in  his 
crude  big  way  he  had  really  understood  better  than  Ian 
Stafford.  She  felt  that  Rudyard  despised  her  now  a 
thousand  times  more  than  ever  he  had  hinted  at  in 
that  last  stifling  scene  in  Park  Lane;  and  her  spirit 
rebelled  against  it.  She  would  rather  that  he  had  be- 
lieved everything  against  her,  and  had  made  an  open 
scandal,  because  then  she  could  have  paid  any  debt  due  to 
him  by  the  penalty  most  cruel  a  woman  can  bear.  But 
pity,  concession,  the  condescension  of  a  superior  morality, 
were  impossible  to  her  proud  mind. 

As  for  Ian  Stafford,  he  had  left  her  stripped  bare  of  one 
single  garment  of  self-respect.  His  very  kindness,  his 
chivalry  in  defending  her;  his  inflexible  determination 
that  all  should  be  over  between  them  forever;  that  she 
should  be  prevailed  upon  to  be  to  Rudyard  more  than  she 
had  ever  been — it  all  drove  her  into  a  deeper  isolation. 
This  isolation  would  have  been  her  destruction  but  that 
something  bigger  than  herself,  a  passion  to  do  things, 
lifted  to  idealism  a  mind  which  in  the  past  had  grown 
372 


"NEVER   THE   TWAIN   SHALL    MEET*1 

materialistic,  which,  in  gaining  wit  and  mental  skill,  had 
missed  the  meaning  of  things,  the  elemental  sense. 

Corporal  Shelter's  tale  of  Rudyard's  heroism  had  stirred 
her;  but  she  could  not  have  said  quite  what  her  feeling 
was  with  regard  to  it.  She  only  knew  vaguely  that  she 
was  glad  of  it  in  a  more  personal  than  impersonal  way. 
When  she  shook  hands  with  the  cheerful  non-com,  at 
the  door  of  the  hospital,  she  gave  him  a  piece  of  gold 
which  he  was  loth  to  accept  till  she  said:  "But  take  it 
as  a  souvenir  of  Colonel  Byng's  little  ride  with  'Old 
Gunter.'  " 

With  a  laugh,  he  took  it  then,  and  replied,  "I'll  not 
smoke  it,  I'll  not  eat  it,  and  I'll  not  drink  it.  I'll  wear 
it  for  luck  and  God-bless-you!" 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

THE    GREY    HORSE   AND    ITS   RIDER 

IT  was  almost  midnight.  The  camp  was  sleeping.  The 
forces  of  destruction  lay  torpid  in  the  starry  shadow 
of  the  night.  There  was  no  moon,  but  the  stars  gave  a 
light  that  relieved  the  gloom.  They  were  so  near  to  the 
eye  that  it  might  seem  a  lancer  could  pick  them  from 
their  nests  of  blue.  The  Southern  Cross  hung  like  a  sign 
of  hope  to  guide  men  to  a  new  Messiah. 

In  vain  Jasmine  had  tried  to  sleep.  The  day  had  been 
too  much  for  her.  All  that  happened  in  the  past  four 
years  went  rushing  past,  and  she  saw  herself  in  scenes 
which  were  so  tormenting  in  their  reality  that  once  she 
cried  out  as  in  a  nightmare.  As  she  did  so;  she  was  an- 
swered by  a  choking  cry  of  pain  like  her  own,  and,  wak- 
ing, she  started  up  from  her  couch  with  poignant  appre- 
hension; but  presently  she  realized  that  it  was  the  cry  of 
some  wounded  patient  in  the  ward  not  far  from  the  room 
where  she  lay. 

It  roused  her,  however,  from  the  half  wakefulness  which 
had  been  excoriated  by  burning  memories,  and,  hurriedly 
rising,  she  opened  wide  the  window  and  looked  out  into 
the  night.  The  air  was  sharp,  but  it  soothed  her  hot 
face  and  brow,  and  the  wild  pulses  in  her  wrists  presently 
beat  less  vehemently.  She  put  a  firm  hand  on  herself, 
as  she  was  wont  to  do  in  these  days,  when  there  was  no 
time  for  brooding  on  her  own  troubles,  and  when,  with 
the  duties  she  had  taken  upon  herself,  it  would  be  crimi- 
nal to  indulge  in  self-pity. 

Looking  out  of  the  window  now  into  the  quiet  night, 
374 


GREY    HORSE    AND    RIDER 

the  watch-fires  dotting  the  plain  had  a  fascination  for  her 
greater  than  the  wonder  of  the  southern  sky  and  its 
plaque  of  indigo  sprinkled  with  silver  dust  and  diamonds. 
Those  fires  were  the  bulletins  of  the  night,  telling  that 
around  each  of  them  men  were  sleeping,  or  thinking  of 
other  scenes,  or  wondering  whether  the  fight  to-morrow 
would  be  their  last  fight,  and  if  so,  what  then  ?  They  were 
to  the  army  like  the  candle  in  the  home  of  the  cottager. 
Those  little  groups  of  men  sleeping  around  their  fires 
were  like  a  family,  where  men  grow  to  serve  each  other 
as  brother  serves  brother,  knowing  each  other's  foibles, 
but  preserving  each  other's  honour  for  the  family's  pride, 
risking  life  to  save  each  other. 

As  Jasmine  gazed  into  the  gloom,  spattered  with  a  deli- 
cate radiance  which  did  not  pierce  the  shadows,  but  only 
made  lively  the  darkness,  she  was  suddenly  conscious  of 
the  dull  regular  thud  of  horses'  hoofs  upon  the  veld. 
Troops  of  Mounted  Infantry  were  evidently  moving  to 
take  up  a  new  position  at  the  bidding  of  the  Master 
Player.  The  sound  was  like  the  rub-a-dub  of  muffled  ham- 
mers. The  thought  forced  itself  on  her  mind  that  here 
were  men  secretly  hastening  to  take  part  in  the  grim 
lottery  of  life  and  death,  from  which  some,  and  maybe 
many,  would  draw  the  black  ticket  of  doom,  and  so  pass 
from  the  game  before  the  game  was  won. 

The  rumbling  roll  of  hoofs  grew  distinct.  Now 
they  seemed  to  be  almost  upon  her,  and  presently  they 
emerged  into  view  from  the  right,  where  their  progress 
had  been  hidden  by  the  hospital  -  building.  When 
they  reached  the  hospital  there  came  a  soft  command, 
and,  as  the  troop  passed,  every  face  was  turned  towards 
the  building.  It  was  men  full  of  life  and  the  interest  of 
the  great  game  paying  passing  homage  to  their  helpless 
comrades  in  this  place  of  healing. 

As  they  rode  past,  a  few  of  the  troopers  had  a  glimpse 
of  the  figure  dimly  outlined  at  the  window.  Some  made 
kindly  jests,  chaffing  each  other — "Your  fancy,  old  sly- 
25  375 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

boots?  Arranged  it  all,  eh?  Watch  me,  Lizzie,  as  I 
pass,  and  wave  your  lily-white  hand!" 

But  others  pressed  their  lips  tightly,  for  visions  of 
a  woman  somewhere  waiting  and  watching  flashed  before 
their  eyes;  while  others  still  had  only  the  quiet  conscious- 
ness of  the  natural  man,  that  a  woman  looks  at  them; 
and  where  women  are  few  and  most  of  them  are  angels, 
— the  battle-field  has  no  shelter  for  any  other — such  looks 
have  deep  significance. 

The  troop  went  by  steadily,  softly  and  slowly.  After 
they  had  all  gone  past,  two  horsemen  detached  from  the 
troop  came  after.  Presently  one  of  them  separated  from 
his  companion  and  rode  on.  The  other  came  towards  the 
hospital  at  a  quick  trot,  drew  bridle  very  near  Jasmine's 
window,  slid  to  the  ground,  said  a  soft  word  to  his  charger, 
patted  its  neck,  and,  turning,  made  for  the  door  of  the 
hospital.  For  a  moment  Jasmine  stood  looking  out,  great- 
ly moved,  she  scarcely  knew  why,  by  this  little  incident 
of  the  night,  and  then  suddenly  the  starlight  seemed  to 
draw  round  the  patient  animal  standing  at  attention,  as 
it  were. 

Then  she  saw  it  was  a  grey  horse. 

Its  owner,  as  Corporal  Shorter  predicted,  had  come  to 
see  "Old  Gunter,"  ere  he  went  upon  another  expedition 
of  duty.  Its  owner  was  Rudyard  Byng. 

That  was  why  so  strange  a  coldness,  as  of  apprehension 
or  anxiety,  had  passed  through  Jasmine  when  the  rider 
had  come  towards  her  out  of  the  night.  Her  husband  was 
here.  If  she  called,  he  would  come.  If  she  stretched  out 
her  hand,  she  could  touch  him  If  she  opened  a  door,  she 
would  be  in  his  presence.  If  he  opened  the  door  behind 
her,  he  could — 

She  stepped  back  hastily  into  the  room,  and  drew  her 
night-robe  closely  about  her  with  sudden  flushing  of  the 
face.  If  he  should  enter  her  room — she  felt  in  the  dark- 
ness for  her  dressing-gown.  It  was  not  on  the  chair 
beside  her  bed.  She  moved  hastily,  and  blundered  against 
376 


GREY    HORSE   AND    RIDER 

a  table.  She  felt  for  the  foot  of  the  bed.  The  dressing- 
gown  was  not  there.  Her  brain  was  on  fire.  Where  was 
her  dressing-gown?  She  tried  to  button  the  night-dress 
over  her  palpitating  breast,  but  abandoned  it  to  throw 
back  her  head  and  gather  her  golden  hair  away  from  her 
shoulders  and  breast.  All  this  in  the  dark,  in  the  safe 
dusk  of  her  own  room.  .  .  .  Where  was  her  dressing-gown  ? 
Where  was  her  maid?  Why  should  she  be  at  such  a  dis- 
advantage! She  reached  for  the  table  again  and  found 
a  match-box.  She  would  strike  a  light,  and  find  her 
dressing-gown.  Then  she  abruptly  remembered  that  she 
had  no  dressing-gown  with  her;  that  she  had  travelled 
with  one  single  bag — little  more  than  a  hand-bag — and 
it  contained  only  the  emergency  equipment  of  a  nurse. 
She  had  brought  no  dressing-gown;  only  the  light  outer 
rain-proof  coat  which  should  serve  a  double  purpose. 
She  had  forgotten  for  a  moment  that  she  was  not  in  her 
own  house,  that  she  was  an  army-woman,  living  a  soldier's 
life.  She  felt  her  way  to  the  wall,  found  the  rain-proof 
coat,  and,  with  trembling  fingers,  put  it  on.  As  she  did 
so  a  wave  of  weakness  passed  over  her,  and  she  swayed 
as  though  she  would  fall;  but  she  put  a  hand  on  herself 
and  fought  her  growing  agitation. 

She  turned  towards  the  bed,  but  stopped  abruptly,  be- 
cause she  heard  footsteps  in  the  hall  outside — footsteps 
she  knew,  footsteps  which  for  years  had  travelled  towards 
her,  day  and  night,  with  eagerness;  the  quick,  urgent  foot- 
steps of  a  man  of  decision,  of  impulse,  of  determination. 
It  was  Rudyard's  footsteps  outside  her  door,  Rudyard's 
voice  speaking  to  some  one;  then  Rudyard's  footsteps 
pausing;  and  afterwards  a  dead  silence.  She  felt  his 
presence;  she  imagined  his  hand  upon  her  door.  With 
a  little  smothered  gasp,  she  made  a  move  forward  as 
though  to  lock  the  door;  then  she  remembered  that  it 
had  no  lock.  With  strained  and  startled  eyes,  she  kept 
her  gaze  turned  on  the  door,  expecting  to  see  it  open 
before  her.  Her  heart  beat  so  hard  she  could  hear  it 
377 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

pounding  against  her  breast,  and  her  temples  were 
throbbing. 

The  silence  was  horrible  to  her.  Her  agitation  cul- 
minated. She  could  bear  it  no  longer.  Blindly  she  ran 
to  another  door  which  led  into  the  sitting-room  of  the 
matron,  used  for  many  purposes — the  hold-all  of  the  odds 
and  ends  of  the  hospital  life;  where  surgeons  consulted, 
officers  waited,  and  army  authorities  congregated  for  the 
business  of  the  hospital.  She  found  the  door,  opened  it 
and  entered  hastily.  One  light  was  burning — a  lamp  with 
a  green  shade.  She  shut  the  door  behind  her  quickly  and 
leaned  against  it,  closing  her  eyes  with  a  sense  of  relief. 
Presently  some  movement  in  the  room  startled  her. 
She  opened  her  eyes.  A  figure  stood  between  the  green 
lamp  and  the  farther  door. 

It  was  her  husband. 

Her  senses  had  deceived  her.  His  footsteps  had  not 
stopped  before  her  bedroom-door.  She  had  not  heard 
the  handle  of  the  door  of  her  bedroom  turn,  but  the 
handle  of  the  door  of  this  room.  The  silence  which 
had  frightened  her  had  followed  his  entrance  here. 

She  hastily  drew  the  coat  about  her.  The  white  linen 
of  her  night-dress  showed.  She  thrust  it  back,  and  in- 
stinctively drew  behind  the  table,  as  though  to  hide  her 
bare  ankles. 

He  had  started  back  at  seeing  her,  but  had  instantly 
recovered  himself.  "Well,  Jasmine,"  he  said  quietly, 
"we've  met  in  a  queer  place." 

All  at  once  her  hot  agitation  left  her,  and  she  became 
cold  and  still.  She  was  in  a  maelstrom  of  feeling  a 
minute  before,  though  she  could  not  have  said  what  the 
feeling  meant;  now  she  was  dominated  by  a  haunting 
sense  of  injury,  roused  by  resentment,  not  against  him, 
but  against  everything  and  everybody,  himself  included. 
All  the  work  of  the  last  few  months  seemed  suddenly  un- 
done— to  go  for  nothing.  Just  as  a  drunkard  in  his  pledge- 
made  reformation,  which  has  done  its  work  for  a  period, 
378 


GREY    HORSE    AND    RIDER 

feels  a  sudden  maddening  desire  to  indulge  his  passion 
for  drink,  and  plunges  into  a  debauch, — the  last  madden- 
ing degradation  before  his  final  triumph, — so  Jasmine 
felt  now  the  restrictions  and  self-control  of  the  past  few 
months  fall  away  from  her.  She  emerged  from  it  all 
the  same  woman  who  had  flung  her  married  life,  her  man, 
and  her  old  world  to  the  winds  on  the  day  that  Krool  had 
been  driven  into  the  street.  Like  Krool,  she  too  had 
gone  out  into  the  unknown — into  a  strange  land  where 
"the  Baas"  had  no  habitation. 

Rudyard's  words  seemed  to  madden  her,  and  there  was 
a  look  of  scrutiny  and  inquiry  in  his  eyes  which  she  saw — 
and  saw  nothing  else  there.  There  was  the  inquisition 
in  his  look  which  had  been  there  in  their  last  interview, 
when  he  had  said  as  plainly  as  man  could  say,  "What  did 
it  mean — that  letter  from  Adrian  Fellowes?" 

It  was  all  there  in  his  eyes  now — that  hateful  inquiry, 
the  piercing  scrutiny  of  a  judge  in  the  Judgment  House, 
and  there  came  also  into  her  eyes,  as  though  in  con- 
sequence, a  look  of  scrutiny  too. 

"  Did  you  kill  Adrian  Fellowes?  Was  it  you?"  her  dis- 
ordered mind  asked. 

She  had  mistaken  the  look  in  his  eyes.  It  was  the 
same  look  as  the  look  in  hers,  and  in  spite  of  all  the 
months  that  had  gone,  both  asked  the  same  question 
as  in  the  hour  when  they  last  parted.  The  dead  man 
stood  between  them,  as  he  had  never  stood  in  life — • 
of  infinitely  more  importance  than  he  had  ever  been 
in  life.  He  had  never  come  between  Rudyard  and 
herself  in  the  old  life  in  any  vital  sense,  not  in  any 
sense  that  finally  mattered.  He  had  only  been  an  in- 
cident; not  part  of  real  life,  but  part  of  a  general  wastage 
of  character;  not  a  disintegrating  factor  in  itself.  Ah, 
no,  not  Adrian  Fellowes,  not  him!  It  enraged  her  that 
Rudyard  should  think  the  dead  man  had  had  any  sway 
over  her.  It  was  a  needless  degradation,  against  which 
she  revolted  now. 

379 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"Why  have  you  come  here — to  this  room?"  she  asked 
coldly. 

As  a  boy  flushes  when  he  has  been  asked  a  disconcert- 
ing question  which  angers  him  or  challenges  his  innocence, 
so  Rudyard's  face  suffused;  but  the  flush  faded  as  quickly 
as  it  came.  His  eyes  then  looked  at  her  steadily,  the 
whites  of  them  so  white  because  of  his  bronzed  face  and 
forehead,  the  glance  firmer  by  far  than  in  his  old  days 
in  London.  There  was  none  of  that  unmanageable  emo- 
tion in  his  features,  the  panic  excitement,  the  savage  dis- 
order which  were  there  on  the  day  when  Adrian  Fellowes' 
letter  brought  the  crisis  to  their  lives ;  none  of  the  barbaric 
storm  which  drove  Krool  down  the  staircase  under  the 
sjambok.  Here  was  force  and  iron  strength,  though  the 
man  seemed  older,  his  thick  hair  streaked  with  grey,  while 
there  was  a  deep  fissure  between  the  eyebrows.  The 
months  had  hardened  him  physically,  had  freed  him  from 
all  superfluous  flesh;  and  the  flabbiness  had  wholly  gone 
from  his  cheeks  and  chin.  There  was  no  sign  of  a  luxuri- 
ous life  about  him.  He  was  merely  the  business-like 
soldier  with  work  to  do.  His  khaki  fitted  him  as  only 
uniform  can  fit  a  man  with  a  physique  without  defect. 
He  carried  in  his  hand  a  short  whip  of  rhinoceros-hide, 
and  as  he  placed  his  hands  upon  his  hips  and  looked  at 
Jasmine  meditatively,  before  he  answered  her  question, 
she  recalled  the  scene  with  Krool.  Her  eyes  were  fasci- 
nated by  the  whip  in  his  hand.  It  seemed  to  her,  all  at 
once,  as  though  she  was  to  be  the  victim  of  his  wrath,  and 
that  the  whip  would  presently  fall  upon  her  shoulders,  as 
he  drove  her  out  into  the  veld.  But  his  eyes  drew  hers  to 
his  own  presently,  and  even  while  he  spoke  to  her  now, 
the  illusion  of  the  sjambok  remained,  and  she  imagined 
his  voice  to  be  intermingling  with  the  dull  thud  of  the 
whip  on  her  shoulders. 

"I  came  to  see  one  of  my  troop  who  was  wounded  at 
Wortmann's  Drift,"  he  answered  her. 

"Old  Gunter,"  she  said  mechanically. 
380 


GREY    HORSE    AND    RIDER 

"Old  Gunter,  if  you  like,"  he  returned,  surprised. 
"How  did  you  know?" 

"The  world  gossips  still,"  she  rejoined  bitterly. 

"Well,  I  came  to  see  Gunter." 

"On  the  grey  mare,"  she  said  again  like  one  in  a  dream. 

"On  the  grey  mare.  I  did  not  know  that  you  were 
here,  and — " 

"If  you  had  known  I  was  here,  you  would  not  have 
come?"  she  asked  with  a  querulous  ring  to  her  voice. 

"No,  I  should  not  have  come  if  I  had  known,  unless 
people  in  the  camp  were  aware  that  I  knew.  Then  I 
should  have  felt  it  necessary  to  come." 

"Why?"     She  knew;  but  she  wanted  him  to  say. 

"That  the  army  should  not  talk  and  wonder.  If  you 
were  here,  it  is  obvious  that  I  should  visit  you." 

"The  army  might  as  well  wonder  first  as  last,"  she  re- 
joined. "That  must  come." 

"I  don't  know  anything  that  must  come  in  this  world," 
he  replied.  "We  don't  control  ourselves,  and  must  lies 
in^the  inner  Mystery  where  we  cannot  enter.  I  had  only 
to  deal  with  the  present.  I  could  not  come  to  the  General 
and  go  again,  knowing  that  you  were  here,  without  seeing 
you.  We  ought  to  do  our  work  here  without  unnecessary 
cross-firing  from  our  friends.  There's  enough  of  that 
from  our  foes." 

"What  right  had  you  to  enter  my  room?"  she  re- 
joined stubbornly. 

"I  am  not  in  your  room.  Something — call  it  anything 
you  like — made  us  meet  on  this  neutral  ground." 

"You  might  have  waited  till  morning,"  she  replied 
perversely. 

"In  the  morning  I  shall  be  far  from  here.  Before  day- 
break I  shall  be  fighting.  War  waits  for  no  one — not  even 
for  you,"  he  added,  with  more  sarcasm  than  he  intended. 

Her  feelings  were  becoming  chaos  again.  He  was  going 
into  battle.  Bygone  memories  wakened,  and  the  first  days 
of  their  lives  together  came  rushing  upon  her;  but  her 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

old  wild  spirit  was  up  in  arms  too  against  the  irony  of  his 
last  words,  "Not  even  for  you."  Added  to  this  was  the 
rushing  remembrance  that  South  Africa  had  been  the 
medium  of  all  her  trouble.  If  Rudyard  had  not  gone  to 
South  Africa,  that  one  five  months  a  year  and  more  ago, 
when  she  was  left  alone,  restless,  craving  for  amusement  and 
excitement  and — she  was  going  to  say  romance,  but  there 
was  no  romance  in  those  sordid  hours  of  pleasure-making, 
when  she  plucked  the  fruit  as  it  lay  to  her  hand — ah,  if 
only  Rudyard  had  not  gone  to  South  Africa  then!  That 
five  months  held  no  romance.  She  had  never  known  but 
one  romance,  and  it  was  over  and  done.  The  floods 
had  washed  it  away. 

"You  are  right.  War  does  not  wait  even  for  me,"  she 
exclaimed.  "It  came  to  meet  me,  to  destroy  me,  when 
I  was  not  armed.  It  came  in  the  night  as  you  have  come, 
and  found  me  helpless  as  I  am  now." 

Suddenly  she  clasped  her  hands  and  wrung  them,  then 
threw  them  above  her  head  in  a  gesture  of  despair.  "  Why 
didn't  God  or  Destiny,  or  whatever  it  is,  stop  you  from 
coming  here!  There  is  nothing  between  us  worth  keep- 
ing, and  there  can  never  be.  There  is  a  black  sea  between 
us.  I  never  want  to  see  you  any  more." 

In  her  agitation  the  coat  had  fallen  away  from  her 
white  night-dress,  and  her  breast  showed  behind  the  parted 
folds  of  the  linen.  Involuntarily  his  eyes  saw.  What 
memories  passed  through  him  were  too  vague  to  record; 
but  a  heavy  sigh  escaped  him,  followed,  however,  by  a 
cloud  which  gathered  on  his  brow.  The  shadow  of  a 
man's  death  thrust  itself  between  them.  This  war  might 
have  never  been,  had  it  not  been  for  the  treachery  of  the 
man  who  had  been  false  to  everything  and  every  being  that 
had  come  his  way.  Indirectly  this  vast  struggle  in  which 
thousands  of  lives  were  being  lost  had  come  through  his 
wife's  disloyalty,  however  unintentional,  or  in  whatever 
degree.  Whenever  he  thought  of  it,  his  pulses  beat  faster 
with  indignation,  and  a  deep  resentment  possessed  him. 
382 


GREY    HORSE    AND    RIDER 

It  was  a  resentment  whose  origin  was  not  a  mere  personal 
wrong  to  him,  but  the  betrayal  of  all  that  invaded  his 
honour  and  the  honour  of  his  country.  The  man  was 
dead — so  much.  He  had  paid  a  price — too  small. 

And  Jasmine,  as  she  looked  at  her  husband  now,  was 
oppressed  by  the  same  shadow — the  inescapable  thing. 
That  was  what  she  meant  when  she  said,  "There  is  a 
black  sea  between  us." 

What  came  to  her  mind  when  she  saw  his  glance  fall 
on  her  breast,  she  could  not  have  told.  But  a  sudden 
flame  of  anger  consumed  her.  The  passion  of  the  body 
was  dead  in  her — atrophied.  She  was  as  one  through 
whose  veins  had  passed  an  icy  fluid  which  stilled  all  the 
senses  of  desire,  but  never  had  her  mind  been  so  pas- 
sionate, so  alive.  In  the  months  lately  gone,  there  had 
been  times  when  her  mind  was  in  a  paroxysm  of  rebellion 
and  resentment  and  remorse;  but  in  this  red  corner  of 
the  universe,  from  which  the  usual  world  was  shut  out, 
from  which  all  domestic  existence,  all  social  organization, 
habit  or  the  amenities  of  social  intercourse  were  excluded, 
she  had  been  able  to  restore  her  equilibrium.  Yet  now 
here,  all  at  once,  there  was  an  invasion  of  this  world  of 
rigid,  narrow  organization,  where  there  was  no  play; 
where  all  men's  acts  were  part  of  a  deadly  mortal  issue; 
where  the  human  being  was  only  part  of  a  scheme  which 
allowed  nothing  of  the  flexible  adaptations  of  the  life  of 
peace,  the  life  of  cities,  of  houses:  here  was  the  sudden 
interposition  of  a  purely  personal  life,  of  domestic  being — 
of  sex.  She  was  conscious  of  no  reasoning,  of  no  mental 
protest  which  could  be  put  into  words :  she  was  only  con- 
scious of  emotions  which  now  shook  her  with  their  power, 
now  left  her  starkly  cold,  her  brain  muffled,  or  again  aflame 
with  a  suffering  as  intense  as  that  of  Procrustes  on  his 
bed  of  iron. 

This  it  was  that  seized  her  now.  The  glance  of  his 
eyes  at  her  bared  breast  roused  her.  She  knew  not  why, 
except  that  there  was  an  indefinable  craving  for  a  self- 
333 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

respect  which  had  been  violated  by  herself  and  others ;  ex- 
cept that  she  longed  for  the  thing  which  she  felt  he  would 
not  give  her.  The  look  in  his  eye  offered  her  nothing  of  that . 

That  she  mistook  what  really  was  in  his  eyes  was  not 
material,  though  he  was  thinking  of  days  when  he  be- 
lieved he  had  discovered  the  secret  of  life — a  woman  whose 
life  was  beautiful;  diffusing  beauty,  contentment,  in- 
spiration and  peace.  She  did  not  know  that  his  look 
was  the  wistful  look  backward,  with  no  look  forward ;  and 
that  alone.  She  was  living  a  life  where  new  faculties  of 
her  nature  were  being  exercised  or  brought  into  active 
being;  she  was  absorbed  by  it  all;  it  was  part  of  her 
scheme  for  restoring  herself,  for  getting  surcease  of  an- 
guish; but  here,  all  at  once,  every  entrenchment  was  over- 
run, the  rigidity  of  the  unit  was  made  chaos,  and  she  was 
tossed  by  the  Spirit  of  Confusion  upon  a  stormy  sea  of 
feeling. 

"Will  you  not  go?"  she  asked  in  a  voice  of  suppressed 
passion.  "Have  you  no  consideration?  It  is  past  mid- 
night." 

His  anger  flamed,  but  he  forced  back  the  words  upon  his 
lips,  and  said  with  a  bitter  smile:  "  Day  and  night  are  the 
same  to  me  always  now.  What  else  should  be  in  war? 
I  am  going."  He  looked  at  the  watch  at  his  wrist.  "It 
is  half-past  one  o'clock.  At  five  our  work  begins — not 
an  eight-hour  day.  We  have  twenty-four-hour  days 
here  sometimes.  This  one  may  be  shorter.  You  never 
can  tell.  It  may  be  a  one-hour  day — or  less." 

Suddenly  he  came  towards  her  with  hands  outstretched. 
"Dear  wife — Jasmine — "  he  exclaimed. 

Pity,  memory,  a  great  magnanimity  carried  him  off  his 
feet  for  a  moment,  and  all  that  had  happened  seemed  as 
nothing  beside  this  fact  that  they  might  never  see  each 
other  again;  and  peace  appeared  to  him  the  one  thing 
needful  after  all.  The  hatred  and  conflict  of  the  world 
seemed  of  small  significance  beside  the  hovering  presence 
of  an  enemy  stronger  than  Time. 
384 


GREY    HORSE    AND    RIDER 

She  was  still  in  a  passion  of  rebellion  against  the  in- 
evitable— that  old  impatience  and  unrealized  vanity  which 
had  helped  to  destroy  her  past.  She  shrank  back  in 
blind  misunderstanding  from  him,  for  she  scarcely  heard 
his  words.  She  mistook  what  he  meant.  She  was  be- 
wildered, distraught. 

"No,  no — coward!"  she  cried. 

He  stopped  short  as  though  he  had  been  shot.  His 
face  turned  white.  Then,  with  an  oath,  he  went  swiftly 
to  the  window  which  opened  to  the  floor  and  passed 
through  it  into  the  night. 

An  instant  later  he  was  on  his  horse. 

A  moment  of  dumb  confusion  succeeded,  then  she 
realized  her  madness,  and  the  thing  as  it  really  was.  Run- 
ning to  the  window,  she  leaned  out. 

She  called,  but  only  the  grey  mare's  galloping  came 
back  to  her  awe-struck  ears. 

With  a  cry  like  that  of  an  animal  in  pain,  she  sank  on 
her  knees  on  the  floor,  her  face  turned  towards  the  stars. 

"Oh,  my  God,  help  me!"  she  moaned. 

At  least  here  was  no  longer  the  cry  of  doom. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 
THE  WORLD'S  FOUNDLING 

AT  last  day  came.  Jasmine  was  crossing  the  hallway 
of  the  hospital  on  her  way  to  the  dining-room  when 
there  came  from  the  doorway  of  a  ward  a  figure  in  a 
nurse's  dress.  It  startled  her  by  some  familiar  motion. 
Presently  the  face  turned  in  her  direction,  but  without 
seeing  her.  Jasmine  recognized  her  then.  She  went 
forward  quickly  and  touched  the  nurse's  arm. 

"ATmah — it  is  Al'mah?"  she  said. 

Al'mah's  face  turned  paler,  and  she  swayed  slightly, 
then  she  recovered  herself.  "Oh,  it  is  you,  Mrs. 
Byng!"  she  said,  almost  dazedly. 

After  an  instant's  hesitation  she  held  out  a  hand.  "  It's 
a  queer  place  for  it  to  happen,"  she  added. 

Jasmine  noticed  the  hesitation  and  wondered  at  the 
words.  She  searched  the  other's  face.  What  did  Al'mah's 
look  mean?  It  seemed  composite  of  paralyzing  surprise, 
of  anxiety,  of  apprehension.  Was  there  not  also  a  look 
of  aversion? 

"Everything  seems  to  come  all  at  once,"  Al'mah  con- 
tinued, as  though  in  explanation. 

Jasmine  had  no  inkling  as  to  what  the  meaning  of  the 
words  was ;  and,  with  something  of  her  old  desire  to  con- 
quer those  who  were  alien  to  her,  she  smiled  winningly. 

"Yes,  things  concentrate  in  life,"  she  rejoined. 

"I've  noticed  that,"  was  the  reply.  "Fate  seems  to 
scatter,  and  then  to  gather  in  all  at  once,  as  though  we 
were  all  feather-toys  on  strings." 

After  a  moment,  as  Al'mah  regarded  her  with  vague 
386 


THE   WORLD'S    FOUNDLING 

wonder,  though  now  she  smiled  too,  and  the  anxiety,  ap- 
prehension, and  pain  went  from  her  face,  Jasmine  said: 
"Why  did  you  come  here?  You  had  a  world  to  work  for 
in  England." 

"I  had  a  world  to  forget  in. England,"  Al'mah  replied. 
Then  she  added  suddenly,  "I  could  not  sing  any  longer." 

"Your  voice — what  happened  to  it?"  Jasmine  asked. 

"One  doesn't  sing  with  one's  voice  only.  The  music 
is  far  behind  the  voice." 

They  had  been  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  hallway. 
Suddenly  Al'mah  caught  at  Jasmine's  sleeve.  "Will  you 
come  with  me?"  she  said. 

She  led  the  way  into  a  room  which  was  almost  gay  with 
veld  everlastings,  pictures  from  illustrated  papers,  small 
flags  of  the  navy  and  the  colonies,  the  Boer  Vierkleur  and 
the  Union  Jack. 

"I  like  to  have  things  cheerful  here,"  Al'mah  said 
almost  gaily.  "Sometimes  I  have  four  or  five  con- 
valescents in  here,  and  they  like  a  little  gaiety.  I  sing 
them  things  from  comic  operas — Offenbach,  Sullivan,  and 
the  rest;  and  if  they  are  very  sentimentally  inclined  I  sing 
them  good  old-fashioned  love-songs  full  of  the  musician's 
tricks.  How  people  adore  illusions!  I've  had  here  an 
old 'Natal  sergeant,  over  sixty,  and  he  was  as  cracked  as 
could  be  about  songs  belonging  to  the  time  when  we  don't 
know  that  it's  all  illusion,  and  that  there's  no  such  thing 
as  Love,  nor  ever  was;  but  only  a  kind  of  mirage  of  the 
mind,  a  sort  of  phantasy  that  seizes  us,  in  which  we  do 
crazy  things,  and  sometimes,  if  the  phantasy  is  strong 
enough,  we  do  awful  things.  But  still  the  illusions  re- 
main in  spite  of  everything,  as  they  did  with  the  old  ser- 
geant. I've  heard  the  most  painful  stories  here  from 
men  before  they  died,  of  women  that  were  false,  and  in- 
juries done,  many,  many  years  ago;  and  they  couldn't  see 
that  it  wasn't  real  at  all,  but  just  phantasy." 

"All  the  world's  mad,"  responded  Jasmine  wearily, 
as  Al'mah  paused. 

387 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Al'mah  nodded.  "So  I  laugh  a  good  deal,  and  try  to 
be  cheerful,  and  it  does  more  good  than  being  too  sym- 
pathetic. Sympathy  gets  to  be  mere  snivelling  very 
often.  I've  smiled  and  laughed  a  great  deal  out  here; 
and  they  say  it's  useful.  The  surgeons  say  it,  and  the 
men  say  it  too  sometimes." 

"Are  you  known  as  Nurse  Grattan?"  Jasmine  asked 
with  sudden  remembrance. 

"  Yes,  Grattan  was  my  mother's  name.  I  am  Nurse 
Grattan  here." 

"So  many  have  whispered  good  things  of  you.  A 
Scottish  Rifleman  said  to  me  a  week  ago,  '  Ech,  she's  aye 
sae  cheery !'  What  a  wonderful  thing  it  is  to  make  a  whole 
army  laugh.  Coming  up  here  three  officers  spoke  of 
you,  and  told  of  humorous  things  you  had  said.  It's 
all  quite  honest,  too.  It's  a  reputation  made  out  of  new 
cloth.  No  one  knows  who  you  are?" 

Al'mah  flushed.  "I  don't  know  quite  who  I  am  my- 
self. I  think  sometimes  I'm  the  world's  foundling." 

Suddenly  a  cloud  passed  over  her  face  again,  and  her 
strong  whimsical  features  became  drawn. 

"I  seem  almost  to  lose  my  identity  at  times;  and  then 
it  is  I  try  most  to  laugh  and  be  cheerful.  If  I  didn't, 
perhaps  I  should  lose  my  identity  altogether.  Do  you 
ever  feel  that?" 

"No;  I  often  wish  I  could." 

Al'mah  regarded  her  steadfastly.  "Why  did  you  come 
here?"  she  asked.  "You  had  the  world  at  your  feet;  and 
there  was  plenty  to  do  in  London.  Was  it  for  the  same 
reason  that  brought  me  here?  Was  it  something  you 
wanted  to  forget  there,  some  one  you  wanted  to  help 
here?" 

Jasmine  saw  the  hovering  passion  in  the  eyes  fixed 
on  her,  and  wondered  what  this  woman  had  to  say  which 
could  be  of  any  import  to  herself;  yet  she  felt  there  was 
something  drawing  nearer  which  would  make  her  shrink. 

"No,"  Jasmine  answered,  "I  did  not  come  to  forget, 
388 


THE    WORLD'S    FOUNDLING 

but  to  try  and  remember  that  one  belongs  to  the  world, 
to  the  work  of  the  world,  to  the  whole  people,  and  not  to 
one  of  the  people;  not  to  one  man,  or  to  one  family,  or 
to  one's  self.  That's  all." 

ATmah's  face , was  now  very  haggard,  but  her  eyes  were 
burning.  "I  do  not  believe  you,"  she  said  straightly. 
"You  are  one  of  those  that  have  had  a  phantasy.  I  had 
one  first  fifteen  years  ago,  and  it  passed,  yet  it  pursued 
me  till  yesterday — till  yesterday  evening.  Now  it's 
gone;  that  phantasy  is  gone  forever.  Come  and  see 
what  it  was." 

She  pointed  to  the  door  of  another  room. 

There  was  something  strangely  compelling  in  her  tone, 
in  her  movements.  Jasmine  followed  her,  fascinated  by 
the  situation,  by  the  look  in  the  woman's  face.  The  door 
opened  upon  darkness,  but  Jasmine  stepped  inside,  with 
Al'mah's  fingers  clutching  her  sleeve.  For  a  moment 
nothing  was  visible;  then,  Jasmine  saw,  dimly,  a  coffin 
on  two  chairs. 

"That  was  the  first  man  I  ever  loved — my  husband," 
Al'mah  said  quietly,  pointing  at  the  coffin.  "There  was 
another,  but  you  took  him  from  me — you  and  others." 

Jasmine  gave  a  little  cry  which  she  smothered  with  her 
hand;  and  she  drew  back  involuntarily  towards  the  light 
of  the  hallway.  The  smell  of  disinfectants  almost  suffo- 
cated her.  A  cloud  of  mystery  and  indefinable  horror 
seemed  to  envelop  her;  then  a  light  flooded  through  her 
brain.  It  was  like  a  stream  of  fire.  But  with  a  voice 
strangely  calm,  she  said,  "You  mean  Adrian  Fellowes?" 

Al'mah's  face  was  in  the  shadow,  but  her  voice  was  full 
of  storm.  "You  took  him  from  me,  but  you  were  only 
one,"  she  said  sharply  and  painfully.  "I  found  it  out  at 
last.  I  suspected  first  at  Glencader.  Then  at  last  I 
knew.  It  was  an  angry,  contemptuous  letter  from  you. 
I  had  opened  it.  I  understood.  When  everything  was 
clear,  when  there  was  no  doubt,  when  I  knew  he  had  tried 
to  hurt  little  Jigger's  sister;  when  he  had  made  up  his 
389 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

mind  to  go  abroad,  then,  I  killed  him.  Then  —  I  killed 
him." 

Jasmine's  cheek  was  white  as  Al'mah's  apron;  but  she 
did  not  shrink.  She  came  a  step  nearer,  and  peered  into 
Al'mah's  face,  as  though  to  read  her  inmost  mind,  as 
though  to  see  if  what  she  said  was  really  true.  She  saw 
not  a  quiver  of  agitation,  not  the  faintest  horror  of 
memory;  only  the  reflective  look  of  accomplished  purpose. 

"You  —  are  you  insane?"  Jasmine  exclaimed  in  a 
whisper.  "Do  you  know  what  you  have  said?" 

Al'mah  smoothed  her  apron  softly.  "Perfectly.  I  do 
not  think  I  am  insane.  I  seem  not  to  be.  One  cannot  do 
insane  things  here.  This  is  the  place  of  the  iron  rule. 
Here  we  cure  madness — the  madness  of  war  and  other 
madnesses." 

"You  had  loved  him,  yet  you  killed  him!" 

"You  would  have  killed  him  though  you  did  not  love 
him.  Yes,  of  course — I  know  that.  Your  love  was  better 
placed ;  but  it  was  like  a  little  bird  caught  by  the  hawk  in  the 
upper  air — its  flight  was  only  a  little  one  before  the  hawk 
found  it.  Yes,  you  would  have  killed  Adrian,  as  I  did, 
if  you  had  had  the  courage.  You  wanted  to  do  it;  but 
I  did  it.  Do  you  remember  when  I  sang  for  you  on  the 
evening  of  that  day  he  died?  I  sang,  'More  Was  Lost  at 
Mohacksfield.1  As  soon  as  I  saw  your  face  that  evening 
I  felt  you  knew  all.  You  had  been  to  his  rooms  and  found 
him  dead.  I  was  sure  of  that.  You  remember  how  La 
Tosca  killed  Scarpia?  You  remember  how  she  felt?  I 
felt  so — just  like  that.  I  never  hesitated.  I  knew  what 
I  wanted  to  do,  and  I  did  it." 

"How  did  you  kill  him?"  Jasmine  asked  in  that  matter- 
of-fact  way  which  comes  at  those  times  when  the  senses 
are  numbed  by  tragedy. 

"You  remember  the  needle — Mr.  Mappin's  needle?     I 

knew  Adrian  had  it.     He  showed  it  to  me.     He  could 

not  keep  the  secret.     He  was  too  weak.     The  needle  was 

in  his  pocket-book — to  kill  me  with  some  day  perhaps. 

390 


THE   WORLD'S    FOUNDLING 

He  certainly  had  not  the  courage  to  kill  himself.  ...  I 
went  to  see  him.  He  was  dressing.  The  pocket-book  lay 
on  the  table.  As  I  said,  he  had  showed  it  to  me.  While 
he  was  busy  I  abstracted  the  needle.  He  talked  of  his 
journey  abroad.  He  lied — nothing  but  lies,  about  him- 
self, about  everything.  When  he  had  said  enough, — 
lying  was  easier  to  him  than  anything  else — I  told  him 
the  truth.  Then  he  went  wild.  He  caught  hold  of  me 
as  if  to  strangle  me.  .  .  .  He  did  not  realize  the  needle- 
point when  it  caught  him.  If  he  did,  it  must  have  seemed 
to  him  only  the  prick  of  a  pin.  .  .  .  But  in  a  few  minutes 
it  was  all  over.  He  died  quite  peacefully.  But  it  was 
not  very  easy  getting  him  on  the  sofa.  He  looked  sleep- 
ing as  he  lay  there.  You  saw.  He  would  never  lie  any 
more  to  women,  to  you  or  to  me  or  any  other.  It  is 
a  good  thing  to  stop  a  plague,  and  the  simplest  way  is  the 
best.  He  was  handsome,  and  his  music  was  very  deceiving. 
It  was  almost  good  of  its  kind,  and  it  was  part  of  him. 
When  I  look  back  I  find  only  misery.  Two  wicked  men 
hurt  me.  They  spoiled  my  life,  first  one  and  then  another ; 
and  I  went  from  bad  to  worse.  At  least  he  " — she  pointed 
to  the  other  room — "he  had  some  courage  at  the  very 
last.  He  fought,  he  braved  death.  The  other — you  re- 
member the  Glencader  Mine.  Your  husband  and  Ian 
Stafford  went  down,  and  Lord  Tynemouth  was  ready  to 
go,  but  Adrian  would  not  go.  Then  it  was  I  began  to  hate 
him.  That  was  the  beginning.  What  happened  had  to 
be.  I  was  to  kill  him;  and  I  did.  It  avenged  me,  and  it 
avenged  your  husband.  I  was  glad  of  that,  for  Rudyard 
Byng  had  done  so  much  for  me:  not  alone  that  he  saved 
me  at  the  opera,  you  remember,  but  other  good  things. 
I  did  his  work  for  him  with  Adrian." 

"Have  you  no  fear — of  me?"  Jasmine  asked. 

"Fear  of— you?    Why?" 

"I  might  hate  you — I  might  tell." 

Al'mah  made  a  swift  gesture  of  protest.  "Do  not  say 
foolish  things.  You  would  rather  die  than  tell.  You 
26  3Qi 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

should  be  grateful  to  me.  Some  one  had  to  kill  him. 
There  was  Rudyard  Byng,  Ian  Stafford,  or  yourself.  It 
fell  to  me.  I  did  your  work.  You  will  not  tell;  but  it 
would  not  matter  if  you  did.  Nothing  would  happen — 
nothing  at  all.  Think  it  out,  and  you  will  see  why." 

Jasmine  shuddered  violently.  Her  body  was  as  cold 
as  ice. 

"Yes,  I  know.  What  are  you  going  to  do  after  the 
war?" 

"Back  to  Covent  Garden  perhaps;  or  perhaps  there 
will  be  no  'after  the  war.'  It  may  all  end  here.  Who 
knows — who  cares!" 

Jasmine  came  close  to  her.  For  an  instant  a  flood  of 
revulsion  had  overpowered  her;  but  now  it  was  all  gone. 

"We  pay  for  all  the  wrong  we  do.  We  pay  for  all  the 
good  we  get" — once  Ian  Stafford  had  said  that,  and  it 
rang  in  her  ears  now.  Al'mah  would  pay,  and  would  pay 
here — here  in  this  world.  Meanwhile,  Al'mah  was  a 
woman  who,  like  herself,  had  suffered. 

"Let  me  be  your  friend;  let  me  help  you,"  Jasmine  said, 
and  she  took  both  of  Al'mah's  hands  in  her  own. 

Somehow  Jasmine's  own  heart  had  grown  larger,  fuller, 
and  kinder  all  at  once.  Until  lately  she  had  never  ached 
to  help  the  world  or  any  human  being  in  all  her  life;  there 
had  never  been  any  of  the  divine  pity  which  finds  its  em- 
ploy in  sacrifice.  She  had  been  kind,  she  had  been  gener- 
ous, she  had  in  the  past  few  months  given  service  un- 
stinted; but  it  was  more  as  her  own  cure  for  her  own  ills 
than  yearning  compassion  for  all  those  who  were  dis- 
tressed "in  mind,  body,  or  estate." 

But  since  last  evening,  in  the  glimmer  of  the  stars,  when 
Rudyard  went  from  her  with  bitter  anger  on  his  lips,  and 
a  contempt  which  threw  her  far  behind  him, — since  that 
hour,  when,  in  her  helplessness,  she  had  sunk  to  the 
ground  with  an  appeal  to  Something  outside  herself,  her 
heart  had  greatly  softened.  Once  before  she  had  appealed 
to  the  Invisible — that  night  before  her  catastrophe,  when 
392 


THE    WORLD'S    FOUNDLING 

she  wound  her  wonderful  hair  round  her  throat  and  drew 
it  tighter  and  tighter,  and  had  cried  out  to  the  beloved 
mother  she  had  never  known.  But  her  inborn,  her  culti- 
vated, her  almost  invincible  egoism,  had  not  even  then 
been  scattered  by  the  bitter  helplessness  of  her  life. 

That  cry  last  night  was  a  cry  to  the  Something  behind 
all.  Only  in  the  last  few  hours — why,  she  knew  not — her 
heart  had  found  a  new  sense.  She  felt  her  soul's  eyes 
looking  beyond  herself.  The  Something  that  made  her 
raise  her  eyes  to  the  stars,  which  seemed  a  pervading 
power,  a  brooding  tenderness  and  solicitude,  had  drawn 
her  mind  away  into  the  mind  of  humanity.  Her  own 
misery  now  at  last  enabled  her  to  see,  however  dimly,  the 
woes  of  others;  and  it  did  not  matter  whether  the  woes 
were  penalties  or  undeserved  chastisement;  the  new-born 
pity  of  her  soul  made  no  choice  and  sought  no  difference. 

As  the  singing- woman's  hands  lay  in  hers,  a  flush  slow- 
ly spread  over  Al'mah's  face,  and  behind  the  direct  power 
of  her  eyes  there  came  a  light  which  made  them  aglow 
with  understanding. 

"I  always  thought  you  selfish — almost  meanly  selfish," 
Al'mah  said  presently.  "I  thought  you  didn't  know  any 
real  life,  any  real  suffering — only  the  surface,  only  disap- 
pointment at  not  having  your  own  happiness;  but  now 
I  see  that  was  all  a  mask.  You  understand  why  I  did 
what  I  did?" 

"I  understand." 

"  I  suppose  there  would  be  thousands  who  would  gladly 
see  me  in  prison — and  on  the  scaffold — if  they  knew — " 

Pain  travelled  across  Jasmine's  face.  She  looked 
Al'mah  in  the  eyes  with  a  look  of  reproof  and  command. 
"Never,  never  again  speak  of  that  to  me  or  to  any  living 
soul,"  she  said.  "I  will  try  to  forget  it;  you  must  put 
it  behind  you."  .  .  .  Suddenly  she  pointed  to  the  other 
room  where  Al'mah's  husband  lay  dead.  "When  is  he 
to  be  buried?"  she  asked. 

"In  an  hour."  A  change  came  over  Al'mah's  face 
393 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

again,  and  she  stood  looking  dazedly  at  the  door  of  the 
room,  behind  which  the  dead  man  lay.     "I  cannot  realize 
it.     It  does  not  seem  real,"  she  said.     "  It  was  all  so  many 
centuries  ago,  when  I  was  young  and  glad." 
Jasmine  admonished  her  gently  and  drew  her  away. 

A  few  moments  later  an  officer  approached  them  from 
one  of  the  wards.  At  that  moment  the  footsteps  of 
the  three  were  arrested  by  the  booming  of  artillery.  It 
seemed  as  though  all  the  guns  of  both  armies  were  at 
work. 

The  officer's  eyes  blazed,  and  he  turned  to  the  two 
women  with  an  impassioned  gesture. 

"Byng  and  the  S.  A.'s  have  done  their  trick,"  he  said. 
"If  they  hadn't,  that  wouldn't  be  going  on.  It  was  to 
follow — a  general  assault — if  Byng  pulled  it  off.  Old 
Blunderbuss  has  done  it  this  time.  His  combination's 
working  all  right — thanks  to  Byng's  lot." 

As  he  hurried  on  he  was  too  excited  to  see  Jasmine's 
agitation. 

"Wait!"  Jasmine  exclaimed,  as  he  went  quickly  down 
the  hallway.  But  her  voice  was  scarcely  above  a 
whisper,  and  he  did  not  hear. 

She  wanted  to  ask  him  if  Rudyard  was  safe.  She  did 
not  realize  that  he  could  not  know. 

But  the  thunder  of  artillery  told  her  that  Rudyard  had 
had  his  fighting  at  daybreak,  as  he  had  said. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 
"ALAMACHTIG!" 

WHEN  Rudyard  flung  himself  on  the  grey  mare  out- 
side Jasmine's  window  at  the  Stay  Awhile  Hospital, 
and  touched  her  flank  with  his  heel,  his  heart  was  heavy 
with  passion,  his  face  hard  with  humiliation  and  defeat. 
He  had  held  out  the  hand  of  reconciliation,  and  she  had 
met  it  with  scorn.  He  had  smothered  his  resentment, 
and  let  the  light  of  peace  in  upon  their  troubles,  and  she 
had  ruthlessly  drawn  a  black  curtain  between  them.  He 
was  going  upon  as  dangerous  a  task  as  could  be  set  a 
soldier,  from  which  he  might  never  return,  and  she  had 
not  even  said  a  God-be-with-you — she  who  had  lain  in 
his  bosom,  been  so  near,  so  dear,  so  cherished: 

"For  Time  and  Change  estrange,  estrange — 
And,  now  they  have  looked  and  seen  us, 
Oh,  we  that  were  dear,  we  are  all  too  near, 
With  the  thick  of  the  world  between  us!" 

How  odd  it  seemed  that  two  beings  who  had  been 
all  in  all  to  each  other,  who  in  the  prime  of  their  love 
would  have  died  of  protesting  shame,  if  they  had  been 
told  that  they  would  change  towards  each  other,  should 
come  to  a  day  when  they  would  be  less  to  each  other  than 
strangers,  less  and  colder  and  farther  off!  It  is  because 
some  cannot  bear  this  desecration  of  ideals,  this  intoler- 
able loss  of  life's  assets,  that  they  cling  on  and  on,  long 
after  respect  and  love  have  gone,  after  hope  is  dead. 

There  had  been  times  in  the  past  few  months  when  such 
thoughts  as  these  vaguely  possessed  Rudyard's  raro4? 
393 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

but  he  could  never,  would  never,  feel  that  all  was  over, 
that  the  book  of  Jasmine's  life  was  closed  to  him;  not 
even  when  his  whole  nature  was  up  in  arms  against  the 
injury  she  had  done  him. 

But  now,  as  the  grey  mare  reached  out  to  achieve  the 
ground  his  troopers  had  covered  before  him,  his  brain  was 
in  a  storm  of  feeling.  After  all,  what  harm  had  he  done 
her,  that  he  should  be  treated  so?  Was  he  the  sinner? 
Why  should  he  make  the  eternal  concession  ?  Why  should 
he  be  made  to  seem  the  one  needing  forgiveness?  He 
did  not  know  why.  But  at  the  bottom  of  everything 
lay  a  something — a  yearning — which  would  not  be  over- 
whelmed. In  spite  of  wrong  and  injury,  it  would  live  on 
and  on;  and  neither  Time  nor  crime,  nor  anything  mor- 
tal could  obliterate  it  from  his  heart's  oracles. 

The  hoofs  of  the  grey  mare  fell  like  the  soft  thud  of  a 
hammer  in  the  sand,  regular  and  precise.  Presently  the 
sound  and  the  motion  lulled  his  senses.  The  rage  and 
humiliation  grew  less,  his  face  cooled.  His  head,  which 
had  been  bent,  lifted  and  his  face  turned  upwards  to  the 
stars.  The  influence  of  an  African  night  was  on  him. 
None  that  has  not  felt  it  can  understand  it,  so  cold,  so 
sweet,  so  full  of  sleep,  so  stirring  with  an  under-life.  Many 
have  known  the  breath  of  the  pampas  beyond  the  Amazon ; 
the  soft  pungency  of  the  wattle  blown  across  the  salt-bush 
plains  of  Australia;  the  friendly  exhilaration  of  the  prairie 
or  the  chaparral;  the  living,  loving  loneliness  of  the  desert; 
but  yonder  on  the  veld  is  a  life  of  the  night  which  pos- 
sesses all  the  others  have,  and  something  of  its  own  besides; 
something  which  gets  into  the  bones  and  makes  for  forget- 
fulness  of  the  world.  It  lifts  a  man  away  from  the  fret 
of  life,  and  sets  his  feet  on  the  heights  where  lies  repose. 

The  peace  cf  the  stars  crept  softly  into  Rudyard's 
heart  as  he  galloped  gently  on  to  overtake  his  men.  His 
pulses  beat  slowly  once  again,  his  mind  regained  its  poise. 
He  regretted  the  oath  he  uttered,  as  he  left  Jasmine;  he 
asked  himself  if,  after  all,  everything  was  over  and  done. 
396 


"ALAMACHTIG!" 

How  good  the  night  suddenly  seemed!  No,  it  was 
not  all  over — unless,  unless,  indeed,  in  this  fight  coming 
on  with  the  daybreak,  Fate  should  settle  it  all  by  doing 
with  him  as  it  had  done  with  so  many  thousands  of 
others  in  this  war.  But  even  then,  would  it  be  all 
over?  He  was  a  primitive  man,  and  he  raised  his  face 
once  more  to  the  heavens.  He  was  no  longer  the  ample 
millionaire,  sitting  among  the  flesh-pots;  he  was  a  lean, 
simple  soldier  eating  his  biscuit  as  though  it  were  the 
product  of  the  chef  of  the  Cafe*  Voisin;  he  was  the 
fighter  sleeping  in  a  blanket  in  the  open;  he  was  a 
patriot  after  his  kind;  he  was  the  friend  of  his  race  and 
the  lover  of  one  woman. 

Now  he  drew  rein.  His  regiment  was  just  ahead.  Day- 
break was  not  far  off,  and  they  were  near  the  enemy's 
position.  In  a  little  while,  if  they  were  not  surprised, 
they  would  complete  a  movement,  take  a  hill,  turn  the 
flank  of  the  foe,  and,  if  designed  supports  came  up,  have 
the  Boers  at  a  deadly  disadvantage.  Not  far  off  to  the 
left  of  him  and  his  mounted  infantry  there  were  coming 
on  for  this  purpose  two  batteries  of  artillery  and  three 
thousand  infantry — Leary's  brigade,  which  had  not  been 
in  the  action  the  day  before  at  Wortmann's  Drift. 

But  all  depended  on  what  he  was  able  to  do,  what  he  and 
his  hard-bitten  South  Africans  could  accomplish.  Well,  he 
had  no  doubt.  War  was  part  chance,  part  common  sense, 
part  the  pluck  and  luck  of  the  devil.  He  had  ever  been 
a  gambler  in  the  way  of  taking  chances;  he  had  always 
possessed  ballast  even  when  the  London  life  had  enervated, 
had  depressed  him;  and  to  men  of  his  stamp  pluck  is  a 
commonplace:  it  belongs  as  eyes  and  hands  and  feet  belong. 

Dawn  was  not  far  away,  and  before  daybreak  he  must 
have  the  hill  which  was  the  key  to  the  whole  posi- 
tion, which  commanded  the  left  flank  of  the  foe.  An 
hour  or  so  after  he  got  it,  if  the  artillery  and  in- 
fantry did  their  portion,  a  great  day's  work  would  be 
done  for  England;  and  the  way  to  the  relief  of  the 
397, 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

garrison  beyond  the  mountains  would  be  open.  The 
chance  to  do  this  thing  was  the  reward  he  received  for 
his  gallant  and  very  useful  fight  at  Wortmann's  Drift 
twenty-four  hours  before.  It  would  not  do  to  fail  in 
justifying  the  choice  of  the  Master  Player,  who  had  had 
enough  bad  luck  in  the  campaign  so  far. 

The  first  of  his  force  to  salute  him  in  the  darkness  was 
his  next  in  command,  Barry  Whalen.  They  had  been 
together  in  the  old  Rand  Rifles,  and  had,  in  the  words 
of  the  Kaffir,  been  as  near  as  the  flea  to  the  blanket, 
since  the  day  when  Rudyard  discovered  that  Barry 
Whalen  was  on  the  same  ship  bound  for  the  seat  of  war. 
They  were  not  youngsters,  either  of  them;  but  they  had 
the  spring  of  youth  in  them,  and  a  deep  basis  of  strength 
and  force;  and  they  knew  the  veld  and  the  veld  people. 
There  was  no  trick  of  the  veldschoen  dopper  for  which 
they  were  not  ready;  and  for  any  device  of  Kruger's 
lambs  they  were  prepared  to  go  one  better.  As  Barry 
Whalen  had  said,  "They'll  have  to  get  up  early  in  the 
morning  if  they  want  to  catch  us." 

This  morning  the  Boers  would  not  get  up  early  enough; 
for  Rudyard' s  command  had  already  reached  the  position 
from  which  they  could  do  their  work  with  good  chances 
in  their  favour;  and  there  had  been  no  sign  of  life  from 
the  Boer  trenches  in  the  dusk — naught  of  what  chanced 
at  Magersfontein.  Not  a  shot  had  been  fired,  and  there 
would  certainly  have  been  firing  if  the  Boer  had  known ;  for 
he  could  not  allow  the  Rooinek  to  get  to  the  point  where 
his  own  position  would  be  threatened  or  commanded. 
When  Kruger's  men  did  discover  the  truth,  there  would 
be  fighting  as  stiff  as  had  been  seen  in  this  struggle  for 
half  a  continent. 

"Is  it  all  right?"  whispered  Rudyard,  as  Barry  Whalen 
drew  up  by  him. 

"Not  a  sound  from  them — not  a  sign." 

"Their  trenches  should  not  be  more  than  a  few  hundred 
yards  on,  eh?" 

398 


"ALAMACHTIG!" 

"Their  nearest  trenches  are  about  that.  We  are  just 
on  the  left  of  Hetmeyer's  Kopje." 

"Good.  Let  Glossop  occupy  the  kopje  with  his 
squadrons,  while  we  take  the  trenches.  If  we  can  force 
them  back  on  their  second  line  of  trenches,  and  keep 
them  there  till  our  supports  come  up,  we  shall  be  all  right." 

"When  shall  we  begin,  sir?"  asked  Barry. 

"Give  orders  to  dismount  now.  Get  the  horses  in  the 
lee  of  the  kopje,  and  we'll  see  what  Brother  Boer  thinks 
of  us  after  breakfast." 

Rudyard  took  out  a  repeating- watch,  and  held  it  in 
his  closed  palm.  As  it  struck,  he  noted  the  time. 

His  words  were  abrupt  but  composed.  "Ten  minutes 
more  and  we  shall  have  the  first  streak  of  dawn.  Then 
move.  We  shall  be  on  them  before  they  know  it." 

Barry  Whalen  made  to  leave,  then  turned  back.  Rud- 
yard understood.  They  clasped  hands.  It  was  the  grip 
of  men  who  knew  each  other — knew  each  other's  faults 
and  weaknesses,  yet  trusted  with  a  trust  which  neither 
disaster  nor  death  could  destroy. 

"My  girl — if  anything  happens  to  me,"  Barry  said. 

"You  may  be  sure — as  if  she  were  my  own,"  was  Rud- 
yard's  reply.  "If  I  go  down,  find  my  wife  at  the  Stay 
Awhile  Hospital.  Tell  her  that  the  day  I  married  her 
was  the  happiest  day  of  my  life,  and  that  what  I  said  then 
I  thought  at  the  last.  Everything  else  is  straightened  out 
— and  I'll  not  forget  your  girl,  Barry.  She  shall  be  as 
my  own  if  things  should  happen  that  way." 

"God  bless  you,  old  man,"  whispered  Barry.  "Good- 
bye." Then  he  recovered  himself  and  saluted.  "Is  that 
all,  sir?" 

"Au  revoir,  Barry,"  came  the  answer;  then  a  formal 
return  of  the  salute.  "That  is  all,"  he  added  brusquely. 

They  moved  forward  to  the  regiment,  and  the  word 
to  dismount  was  given  softly.     When  the  forces  crept 
forward  again,  it  was  as  infantrymen,  moving  five  paces 
&part,  and  feeling  their  way  up  to  the  Boer  trenches. 
399 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Dawn.  The  faintest  light  on  the  horizon,  as  it  were  a 
soft,  grey  glimmer  showing  through  a  dark  curtain.  It 
rises  and  spreads  slowly,  till  the  curtain  of  night  becomes 
the  veil  of  morning,  white  and  kind.  Then  the  living 
world  begins  to  move.  Presently  the  face  of  the  sun  shines 
through  the  veil,  and  men's  bodies  grow  warm  with  active 
being,  and  the  world  stirs  with  busy  life.  On  the  veld, 
with  the  first  delicate  glow,  the  head  of  a  meerkat,  or  a 
springbok,  is  raised  above  the  grey-brown  grass;  herds 
of  cattle  move  uneasily.  Then  a  bird  takes  flight  across 
the  whitening  air,  another,  and  then  another;  the  meer- 
kat sits  up  and  begs  breakfast  of  the  sun;  lizards  creep 
out  upon  the  stones;  a  snake  slides  along  obscenely  forag- 
ing. Presently  man  and  beast  and  all  wild  things  are 
afoot  or  a-wing,  as  though  the  world  was  new-created;  as 
though  there  had  never  been  any  mornings  before,  and  this 
was  not  the  monotonous  repetition  of  a  million  mornings, 
when  all  things  living  begin  the  world  afresh. 

But  nowhere  seems  the  world  so  young  and  fresh  and 
glad  as  on  the  sun-warmed  veld.  Nowhere  do  the  wild 
roses  seem  so  pure,  or  are  the  aloes  so  jaunty  and  so  gay. 
The  smell  of  the  karoo  bush  is  sweeter  than  attar,  and 
the  bog-myrtle  and  mimosa,  where  they  shelter  a  house 
or  fringe  a  river,  have  a  look  of  Arcady.  It  is  a  world 
where  any  mysterious  thing  may  happen  —  a  world 
of  five  thousand  years  ago — the  air  so  light,  so  sweetly 
searching  and  vibrating,  that  Ariel  would  seem  of  the 
picture,  and  gleaming  hosts  of  mailed  men,  or  vast 
colonies  of  green-clad  archers  moving  to  virgin  woods 
might  belong.  Something  frightens  the  timid  spirit  of 
a  springbok,  and  his  flight  through  the  grass  is  like  a 
phrase  of  music  on  a  wilful  adventure;  a  bird  hears  the 
sighing  of  the  breeze  in  the  mimosa  leaves  or  the  swaying 
shrubs,  and  in  disdain  of  such  slight  performance  flings 
out  a  song  which  makes  the  air  drunken  with  sweetness. 

A  world  of  light,  of  commendable  trees,  of  grey  grass 
flecked  with  flowers,  of  life  having  the  supreme  sense  of 
400 


"ALAMACHTIG!" 

a  freedom  which  has  known  no  check.  It  is  a  life  which 
cities  have  not  spoiled,  and  where  man  is  still  in  touch 
with  the  primeval  friends  of  man;  where  the  wildest  beast 
and  the  newest  babe  of  a  woman  have  something  in  common. 
Drink  your  fill  of  the  sweet  intoxicating  air  with  eyes 
shut  till  the  lungs  are  full  and  the  heart  beats  with  new 
fulness;  then  open  them  upon  the  wide  sunrise  and  scan 
the  veld  so  full  of  gracious  odour.  Is  it  not  good  and  glad  ? 
And  now  face  the  hills  rising  nobly  away  there  to  the  left, 
the  memorable  and  friendly  hills.  Is  it  not — 

Upon  the  morning  has  crept  suddenly  a  black  cloud, 
although  the  sun  is  shining  brilliantly.  A  moment 
before  the  dawn  all  was  at  peace  on  the  veld  and 
among  the  kopjes,  and  only  the  contented  sighing  of 
men  and  beasts  broke  the  silence,  or  so  it  seemed;  but 
with  the  glimmer  of  light  along  the  horizon  came  a  change 
so  violent  that  all  the  circle  of  vision  was  in  a  quiver  of 
trouble.  Affrighted  birds,  in  fluttering  bewilderment, 
swept  and  circled  aimlessly  through  the  air  with  strange, 
half -human  cries;  the  jackal  and  the  meerkat,  the 
springbok  and  the  rheebok,  trembled  where  they  stood, 
with  heads  uplifted,  vaguely  trying  to  realize  the  Thing 
which  was  breaking  the  peace  of  their  world;  useless 
horses  which  had  been  turned  out  of  the  armies  of  Boers 
and  British  galloped  and  stumbled  and  plunged  into 
space  in  alarm;  for  they  knew  what  was  darkening  the 
morning.  They  had  suffered  the  madness  of  battle,  and 
they  realized  it  at  its  native  first  value. 

There  was  a  battle  forward  on  the  left  flank  of  the  Boer 
Army.  Behind  Hetmeyer's  Kopje  were  the  horses  of 
the  men  whom  Rudyard  Byng  had  brought  to  take  a 
position  and  hold  it  till  support  came  and  this  flank  of 
the  Farmer's  Army  was  turned;  but  the  men  themselves 
were  at  work  on  the  kopjes — the  grim  work  of  dislodging 
the  voortrekker  people  from  the  places  where  they  bur- 
rowed like  conies  among  the  rocks. 
401 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Just  before  dawn  broke  Byng's  men  were  rushing  the 
outer  trenches.  These  they  cleared  with  the  wild  cries 
of  warriors  whose  blood  was  in  a  tempest.  Bayonets 
dripped  red,  rifles  were  fired  at  hand-to-hand  range,  men 
clubbed  their  guns  and  fought  as  men  fought  in  the  days 
when  the  only  fighting  was  man  to  man,  or  one  man  to 
many  men.  Here  every  "Boojer"  and  Rooinek  was  a 
champion.  The  Boer  fell  back  because  he  was  forced 
back  by  men  who  were  men  of  the  veld  like  himself; 
and  the  Briton  pressed  forward  because  he  would  not  be 
denied;  because  he  was  sick  of  reverses;  of  going  forward 
and  falling  back;  of  taking  a  position  with  staggering  loss 
and  then  abandoning  it;  of  gaining  a  victory  and  then  not 
following  it  up;  of  having  the  foe  in  the  hollow  of  the 
hand  and  hesitating  to  close  it  with  a  death-grip;  of 
promising  relief  to  besieged  men,  and  marking  time  when 
you  had  gained  a  foothold,  instead  of  gaining  a  foothold 
farther  on. 

Byng's  men  were  mostly  South-Africans  born,  who  had 
lived  and  worked  below  the  Zambesi  all  their  lives;  or 
else  those  whose  blood  was  in  a  fever  at  the  thought  that 
a  colony  over  which  the  British  flag  flew  should  be  trod 
by  the  feet  of  an  invader,  who  had  had  his  own  liberty 
and  independence  secured  by  that  flag,  but  who  refused 
to  white  men  the  status  given  to  "niggers"  in  civilized 
states.  These  fighters  under  Byng  had  had  their  fill  of 
tactics  and  strategy  which  led  nowhere  forward;  and  at 
Wortmann's  Drift  the  day  before  they  had  done  a  big 
thing  for  the  army  with  a  handful  of  men.  They  could 
ride  like  Cossacks,  they  could  shoot  like  William  Tell,  and 
they  had  a  mind  to  be  the  swivel  by  which  the  army  of 
Queen  Victoria  should  swing  from  almost  perpetual 
disaster,  in  large  and  small  degree,  to  victory. 

From  the  first  trenches  on  and  on  to  the  second  trenches 

higher  up!    But  here  the  Boer  in  his  burrow  with  his 

mauser  rifle  roaring,  and  his  heart  fierce  with  hatred 

and  anger  at  the  surprise,  laid  down  to  the  bloody  work 

403 


"ALAMACHTIG!" 

with  an  ugly  determination  to  punish  remorselessly  his 
fellow-citizens  of  the  veld  and  the  others.  It  was  a  fire 
which  only  bullet-proof  men  could  stand,  and  these  were 
but  breasts  of  flesh  and  muscle,  though  the  will  was  iron. 

Up,  up,  and  up,  struggled  these  men  of  the  indomitable 
will.  Step  by  step,  while  man  after  man  fell  wounded  or 
dead,  they  pushed  forward,  taking  what  cover  was  pos- 
sible; firing  as  steadily  as  at  Aldershot;  never  wasting 
shots,  keeping  the  eye  vigilant  for  the  black  slouch  hat 
above  the  rocks,  which  told  that  a  Boer's  head  was  be- 
neath it,  and  might  be  caught  by  a  lightning  shot. 

Step  by  step,  man  by  man,  troop  by  troop,  they  came 
nearer  to  the  hedges  of  stone  behind  which  an  inveterate 
foe  with  grim  joy  saw  a  soldier  fall  to  his  soft-nosed  bullet; 
while  far  down  behind  these  men  of  a  forlorn  hope  there 
was  hurrying  up  artillery  which  would  presently  throw 
its  lyddite  and  its  shrapnel  on  the  top  of  the  hill  up  where 
hundreds  of  Boers  held,  as  they  thought,  an  impregnable 
position. 

At  last  with  rushes  which  cost  them  almost  as  dearly  in 
proportion  as  the  rush  at  Balaclava  cost  the  Light  Bri- 
gade, Byng's  men  reached  the  top,  mad  with  the  passion 
of  battle,  vengeful  in  spirit  because  of  the  comrades  they 
had  lost ;  and  the  trenches  emptied  before  them.  As  they 
were  forsaken,  men  fought  hand  to  hand  and  as  savage- 
ly as  ever  men  fought  in  the  days  of  Rustum. 

In  one  corner,  the  hottest  that  the  day  saw,  Rudyard 
and  Barry  Whalen  and  a  scattered  handful  of  men  threw 
themselves  upon  a  greatly  larger  number  of  the  enemy. 
For  a  moment  a  man  here  and  there  fought  for  his  life 
against  two  or  three  of  the  foe.  Of  these  were  Rudyard 
and  Barry  Whalen.  The  khaki  of  the  former  was  shot 
through  in  several  places,  he  had  been  slashed  in  the  cheek 
by  a  bullet,  and  a  bullet  had  also  passed  through  the 
muscle  of  his  left  forearm;  but  he  was  scarcely  conscious 
of  it.  It  seemed  as  though  Fate  would  let  no  harm  befall 
him;  but,  in  the  very  moment,  when  on  another  part 
403 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

of  the  ridge  his  men  were  waving  their  hats  in  victory, 
three  Boers  sprang  up  before  him,  ragged  and  grim  and 
old,  but  with  the  fire  of  fanaticism  and  race-hatred  in 
their  eyes.  One  of  them  he  accounted  for,  another  he 
wounded,  but  the  wounded  voortrekker — a  giant  of  near 
seven  feet — clubbed  his  rifle,  and  drove  at  him.  Rudyard 
shot  at  close  quarters  again,  but  his  pistol  missed  fire. 

Just  as  the  rifle  of  his  giant  foe  swung  above  him,  Byng 
realized  that  the  third  Boer  was  levelling  a  rifle  directly 
at  his  breast.  His  eyes  involuntarily  closed  as  though 
to  draw  the  curtain  of  life  itself,  but,  as  he  did  so,  he  heard 
a  cry — the  wild,  hoarse  cry  of  a  voice  he  knew  so  well. 

"Baas!    Baas!"  it  called. 

Then  two  shots  came  simultaneously,  and  the  clubbed 
rifle  brought  him  to  the  ground. 

"Baas!    Baas!" 

The  voice  followed  him,  as  he  passed  into  unconscious- 
ness. 

Barry  Whalen  had  seen  Rudyard's  danger,  but  had 
been  unable  to  do  anything.  His  hands  were  more  than 
full,  his  life  in  danger;  but  in  the  instant  that  he  had 
secured  his  own  safety,  he  heard  the  cry  of  "Baas!  Baas!" 
Then  he  saw  the  levelled  rifle  fall  from  the  hands  of 
the  Boer  who  had  aimed  at  Byng,  and  its  owner  collapse 
in  a  heap.  As  Rudyard  fell  beneath  the  clubbed  rifle, 
he  heard  the  cry,  "Baas!  Baas!"  again,  and  saw  an  un- 
kempt figure  darting  among  the  rocks.  His  own  pistol 
brought  down  the  old  Boer  who  had  felled  Byng,  and  then 
he  realized  who  it  was  had  cried  out,  "Baas!" 

The  last  time  he  had  heard  that  voice  was  in  Park 
Lane,  when  Byng,  with  sjambok,  drove  a  half-caste  valet 
into  the  street. 

It  was  the  voice  of  Krool.  And  Krool  was  now  bend- 
ing over  Rudyard's  body,  raising  his  head  and  still  mur- 
muring, "Baas — Baas!" 

Krool's  rifle  had  saved  Rudyard  from  death  by  killing 
one  of  his  own  fellow-fighters.  Much  as  Barry  Whalen 
404 


"ALAMACHTIG!" 

loathed  the  man,  this  act  showed  that  Krool's  love  for 
the  master  who  had  sjamboked  him  was  stronger  than 
death. 

Barry,  himself  bleeding  from  slight  wounds,  stooped 
over  his  unconscious  friend  with  a  great  anxiety. 

"No,  it  is  nothing,"  Krool  said,  with  his  hand  on  Rud- 
yard's  breast.  "The  left  arm,  it  is  hurt,  the  head  not 
get  all  the  blow.  Alamachtig,  it  is  good!  The  Baas — 
it  is  right  with  the  Baas." 

Barry  Whalen  sighed  with  relief.  He  set  about  to  re- 
store Rudyard,  as  Krool  prepared-  a  bandage  for  the 
broken  head. 

Down  in  the  valley  the  artillery  was  at  work.  Lyddite 
and  shrapnel  and  machine-guns  were  playing  upon  the  top 
of  the  ridge  above  them,  and  the  infantry — Humphrey's 
and  Blagdon's  men — were  hurrying  up  the  slope  which 
Byng's  pioneers  had  cleared,  and  now  held.  From  this 
position  the  enemy  could  be  driven  from  their  main  posi- 
tion on  the  summit,  because  they  could  be  swept  now  by 
artillery  fire  from  a  point  as  high  as  their  own. 

"A  good  day's  work,  old  man,"  said  Barry  Whalen  to 
the  still  unconscious  figure.  "You've  done  the  trick  for 
the  Lady  at  Windsor  this  time.  It's  a  great  sight  bet- 
ter business  than  playing  baccarat  at  De  Lancy  Scovel's." 

Cheering  came  from  everywhere,  cries  of  victory  filled 
the  air.  As  he  looked  down  the  valley  Barry  could  see 
the  horses  they  had  left  behind  being  brought,  under  cover 
of  the  artillery  and  infantry  fire,  to  the  hill  they  had  taken. 
The  grey  mare  would  be  among  them.  But  Rudyard 
would  not  want  the  grey  mare  yet  awhile.  An  am- 
bulance-cart was  the  thing  for  him. 

Barry  would  have  given  much  for  a  flask  of  brandy. 
A  tablespoonful  would  bring  Rudyard  back.  A  surgeon 
was  not  needed,  however.  Krool's  hands  had  knowledge. 
Barry  remembered  the  day  when  Wallstein  was  taken  ill 
in  Rudyard's  house,  and  how  Krool  acted  with  the  skill 
of  a  Westminster  sawbones. 
405 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Suddenly  a  bugle-call  sounded,  loud  and  clear  and  very 
near  them.  Byng  had  heard  that  bugle-call  again  and 
again  in  this  engagement,  and  once  he  had  seen  the  trum- 
peter above  the  trenches,  sounding  the  advance  before 
more  than  a  half-dozen  men  had  reached  the  defences 
of  the  Boers.  The  same  trumpeter  was  now  running 
towards  them.  He  had  been  known  in  London  as  Jigger. 
In  South  Africa  he  was  familiarly 'called  Little  Jingo. 

His  face  was  white  as  he  leaned  over  Barry  Whalen 
to  look  at  Rudyard,  but  suddenly  the  blood  came  back 
to  his  cheek. 

"He  wants  brandy,"  Jigger  said. 

"Well,  go  and  get  it,"  said  Barry  sharply. 

"I've  got  it  here,"  was  the  reply;  and  he  produced  a 
flask. 

"Well,  I'm  damned!"  said  Barry.  "You'll  have  a 
gun  next,  and  fire  it  too!" 

"A  4.7,"  returned  Jigger  impudently. 

As  the  flask  was  at  Rudyard's  lips,  Barry  Whalen  said 
to  Krool,  "What  do  you  stay  here  as  —  deserter  or 
prisoner?  It's  got  to  be  one  or  the  other." 

"Prisoner,"  answered  Krool.  Then  he  added,  "See — 
the  Baas." 

Rudyard's  eyes  were  open. 

"Prisoner — who  is  a  prisoner?"  he  asked  feebly. 

"Me,  Baas,"  whispered  Krool,  leaning  over  him. 

"He  saved  your  life,  Colonel,"  interposed  Barry 
Whalen. 

"I  thought  it  was  the  brandy,"  said  Jigger  with  a 
grin. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 
"THE  ALPINE  FELLOW" 

r  I  ^O  all  who  wrought  in  the  war  a  change  of  some  sort 
1  had  come.  Those  who  emerged  from  it  to  return 
to  England  or  her  far  Dominions,  or  to  stay  in  the  land 
of  the  veld,  of  the  kranz  and  the  kloof  and  the  spruit, 
were  never  the  same  again.  Something  came  which,  to  a 
degree,  transformed  them,  as  the  salts  of  the  water  and 
the  air  permeate  the  skin  and  give  the  blood  new  life. 
None  escaped  the  salt  of  the  air  of  conflict. 

The  smooth-faced  young  subaltern  who  but  now  had 
all  his  life  before  him,  realized  the  change  when  he  was 
swept  by  the  leaden  spray  of  death  on  Spion  Kop,  and 
received  in  his  face  of  summer  warmth,  or  in  his  young 
exultant  heart,  the  quietus  to  all  his  hopes,  impulses  and 
desires.  The  young  find  no  solace  or  recompense  in  the 
philosophy  of  those  who  regard  life  as  a  thing  greatly 
over-estimated . 

Many  a  private  grown  hard  of  flesh  and  tense  of  muscle, 
with  his  scant  rations  and  meagre  covering  in  the  cold 
nights,  with  his  long  marches  and  fruitless  risks  and  futile 
fightings,  when  he  is  shot  down,  has  little  consolation, 
save  in  the  fact  that  the  thing  he  and  his  comrades  and 
the  regiment  and  the  army  set  out  to  do  is  done.  If  he  has 
to  do  so,  he  gives  his  life  with  a  stony  sense  of  loss  which 
has  none  of  the  composure  of  those  who  have  solace  in 
thinking  that  what  they  leave  behind  has  a  constantly 
decreasing  value.  And  here  and  there  some  simple  soul, 
more  gifted  than  his  comrades,  may  touch  off  the  mean- 
27  407 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

ing  of  it  all,  as  it  appears  to  those  who  hold  their  lives 
in  their  hands  for  a  nation's  sake,  by  a  stroke  of  mordant 
comment. 

So  it  was  with  that  chess-playing  private  from  New 
Zealand  of  whom  Barry  Whalen  told  Ian  Stafford.  He 
told  it  a  few  days  after  Rudyard  Byng  had  won  that  fight 
at  Hetmeyer's  Kopje,  which  had  enabled  the  Master 
Player  to  turn  the  flank  of  the  Boers,  though  there  was 
yet  grim  frontal  work  to  do  against  machines  of  Death, 
carefully  hidden  and  masked  on  the  long  hillsides,  which 
would  take  staggering  toll  of  Britain's  manhood. 

"From  behind  Otago  there  in  New  Zealand,  he  came," 
began  Barry,  "as  fine  a  fella  of  thirty-three  as  ever  you 
saw.  Just  come,  because  he  heard  old  Britain  callin'. 
Down  he  drops  the  stock-whip,  away  he  shoves  the  plough, 
up  he  takes  his  little  balance  from  the  bank,  sticks  his 
chess-box  in  his  pocket,  says  '  so-long '  to  his  girl,  and  treks 
across  the  world,  just  to  do  his  whack  for  the  land  that 
gave  him  and  all  his  that  went  before  him  the  key  to 
civilization,  and  how  to  be  happy  though  alive.  .  .  .  He 
was  the  real  thing,  the  ne  plus  ultra,  the  I-stand-alone. 
The  other  fellas  thought  him  the  best  of  the  best.  He 
was  what  my  father  used  to  call  'a  wide  man.'  He  was 
in  and  out  of  a  fight  with  a  quirk  at  the  corner  of  his 
mouth,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  I've  got  the  hang  of  this,  and 
it's  different  from  what  I  thought;  but  that  doesn't  mean 
it  hasn't  got  to  be  done,  and  done  in  style.  It's  the 
has-to-be.'  And  when  they  got  him  where  he  breathes, 
he  fished  out  the  little  ivory  pawn  and  put  it  on  a  stone 
at  his  head,  to  let  it  tell  his  fellow-countrymen  how  he 
looked  at  it — -that  he  was  just  a  pawn  in  the  great  game. 
The  game  had  to  be  played,  and  won,  and  the  winner  had 
to  sacrifice  his  pawns.  He  was  one  of  the  sacrifices. 
Well,  I'd  like  a  tombstone  the  same  as  that  fella  from 
New  Zealand,  if  I  could  win  it  as  fair,  and  see  as  far." 

Stafford  raised  his  head  with  a  smile  of  admiration. 
"Like  the  ancients,  like  the  Oriental  Emperors  to-day, 
408 


"THE    ALPINE    FELLOW" 

he  left  his  message.  An  Alexander,  with  not  one  world 
conquered." 

"I'm  none  so  sure  of  that,"  was  Barry's  response.  "A 
man  that  could  put  such  a  hand  on  himself  as  he  did  has 
conquered  a  world.  He  didn't  want  to  go,  but  he  went 
as  so  many  have  gone  hereabouts.  He  wanted  to  stay, 
but  he  went  against  his  will,  and — and  I  wish  that  the 
grub-hunters,  and  tuft-hunters,  and  the  blind  greedy 
majority  in  England  could  get  hold  of  what  he  got  hold 
of.  Then  life  'd  be  a  different  thing  in  Thamesfontein 
and  the  little  green  islands." 

"You  were  meant  for  a  Savonarola  or  a  St.  Francis, 
my  bold  grenadier,"  said  Stafford  with  a  friendly  nod. 

"  I  was  meant  for  anything  that  comes  my  way,  and  to 
do  everything  that  was  hard  enough." 

Stafford  waved  a  hand.  "Isn't  this  hard  enough — a 
handful  of  guns  and  fifteen  hundred  men  lost  in  a  day, 
and  nothing  done  that  you  can  put  in  an  envelope  and 
send  'to  the  old  folks  at  'ome?'" 

' '  Well,  that's  all  over,  Colonel.  Byng  has  turned  the  tide 
by  turning  the  Boer  flank.  I'm  glad  he's  got  that  much 
out  of  his  big  shindy.  It  11  do  him  more  good  than  his 
millions.  He  was  oozing  away  like  a  fat  old  pine-tree  in 
London  town.  He's  got  all  his  balsam  in  his  bones  now. 
I  bet  he'll  get  more  out  of  this  thing  than  anybody,  more 
that's  worth  having.  He  doesn't  want  honours  or  pro- 
motion; he  wants  what  'd  make  his  wife  sorry  to  be  a 
widow;  and  he's  getting  it." 

"Let  us  hope  that  his  wife  won't  be  put  to  the  test," 
responded  Stafford  evenly. 

Barry  looked  at  him  a  little  obliquely.  "She  came 
pfetty  near  it  when  we  took  Hetmeyer's  Kopje." 

"Is  he  all  right  again?"  Stafford  asked;  then  added 
quickly,  "I've  had  so  much  to  do  since  the  Hetmeyer 
business  that  I  have  not  seen  Byng." 

Barry  spoke  very  carefully  and  slowly.  "He's  over  at 
Brinkvvort's  Farm  for  a  while.  He  didn't  want  to  go  to 
409 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

the  hospital,  and  the  house  at  the  Farm  is  good  enough 
for  anybody.  Anyhow,  you  get  away  from  the  smell  of 
disinfectants  and  the  business  of  the  hospital.  It's  a 
snigger  little  place  is  Brinkwort's  Farm.  There's  an  or- 
chard of  peaches  and  oranges,  and  there  are  pomegranate 
hedges,  and  plenty  of  nice  flowers  in  the  garden,  and  a 
stoep  made  for  candidates  for  Stellenbosch — as  comfort- 
able as  the  room  of  a  Rand  director." 

"Mrs.  Byng  is  with  him?"  asked  Stafford,  his  eyes 
turned  towards  Brinkwort's  Farm  miles  away.  He  could 
see  the  trees,  the  kameel-thorn,  the  blue-gums,  the  orange 
and  peach  trees  surrounding  it,  a  clump  or  cloud  of  green 
in  the  veld. 

"No,  Mrs.  Byng's  not  with  him,"  was  the  reply. 

Stafford  stirred  uneasily,  a  frown  gathered,  his  eyes 
took  on  a  look  of  sombre  melancholy.  "Ah,"  he  said  at 
length,  "she  has  returned  to  Durban,  then?" 

"No.  She  got  a  chill  the  night  of  the  Hetmeyer  coup, 
and  she's  in  bed  at  the  hospital." 

Stafford  controlled  himself.  "Is  it  a  bad  chill?"  he 
asked  heavily.  "Is  she  dangerously  ill?"  His  voice 
seemed  to  thicken. 

"She  was;  but  she's  not  so  bad  that  a  little  attention 
from  a  friend  would  make  her  worse.  She  never  much 
liked  me;  but  I  went  just  the  same,  and  took  her  some 
veld-roses." 

"You  saw  her?"     Stafford's  voice  was  very  low. 

"Yes,  for  a  minute.  She's  as  thin  as  she  once  wasn't," 
Barry  answered,  "but  twice  as  beautiful.  Her  eyes  are 
as  big  as  stars,  and  she  can  smile  still,  but  it's  a  new  one — 
a  war-smile,  I  expect.  Everything  gets  a  turn  of  its  own 
at  the  Front." 

"She  was  upset  and  anxious  about  Byng,  I  suppose?" 
Stafford  asked,  with  his  head  turned  away  from  this  faith- 
fulest  of  friends,  who  would  have  died  for  the  man  now 
sitting  on  the  stoep  of  Brinkwort's  house,  looking  into 
the  bloom  of  the  garden. 

410 


"THE    ALPINE    FELLOW" 

"Naturally,"  was  the  reply.  Barry  Whalen  thought 
carefully  of  what  he  should  say,  because  the  instinct  of 
the  friend  who  loved  his  friend  had  told  him  that,  since 
the  night  at  De  Lancy  Scovel's  house  when  the  name  of 
Mennaval  had  been  linked  so  hatefully  with  that  of 
Byng's  wife,  there  had  been  a  cloud  over  Rudyard's  life; 
and  that  Rudyard  and  Jasmine  were  not  the  same  as  of 
yore. 

"Naturally  she  was  upset,"  he  repeated.  "She  made 
Al'mah  go  and  nurse  Byng." 

' '  Al'mah, ' '  repeated  Stafford  mechanically.  ' '  Al'mah !' ' 
His  mind  rushed  back  to  that  night  at  the  opera,  when 
Rudyard  had  sprung  from  the  box  to  the  stage  and  had 
rescued  Al'mah  from  the  flames.  The  world  had  widened 
since  then. 

Al'mah  and  Jasmine  had  been  under  the  same  roof 
but  now;  and  Al'mah  was  nursing  Jasmine's  husband — • 
surely  life  was  merely  farce  and  tragedy. 

At  this  moment  an  orderly  delivered  a  message  to 
Barry  Whalen.  He  rose  to  go,  but  turned  back  to  Staf- 
ford again. 

"She'd  be  glad  to  see  you,  I'm  certain,"  he  said.  "You 
never  can  tell  what  a  turn  sickness  will  take  in  camp,  and 
she's  looking  pretty  frail.  We  all  ought  to  stand  by  Byng 
and  whatever  belongs  to  Byng.  No  need  to  say  that  to 
you ;  but  you've  got  a  lot  of  work  and  responsibility,  and 
in  the  rush  you  mightn't  realize  that  she's  more  ill  than 
the  chill  makes  her.  I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  saying 
so  in  my  stupid  way." 

Stafford  rose  and  grasped  his  hand,  and  a  light  of  won- 
derful friendliness  and  comradeship  shone  in  his  eyes. 

"Beau  chevalier!  Beau  chevalier!"  was  all  he  said;  and 
impulsive  Barry  Whalen  went  away  blinking;  for  hard  as 
iron  as  he  was  physically,  and  a  fighter  of  courage,  his  tem- 
perament got  into  his  eyes  or  at  his  lips  very  easily. 

Stafford  looked  after  him  admiringly.  "Lucky  the 
man  who  has  such  a  friend,"  he  said  aloud — "Sans  peur 
411 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

et  sans  reproche!  He  could  not  betray  a" — the  waving  of 
wings  above  him  caught  his  eye — "he  could  not  betray 
an  aasvogel."  His  look  followed  the  bird  of  prey,  the 
servitor  of  carrion  death,  as  it  flew  down  the  wind. 

He  had  absorbed  the  salt  of  tears  and  valour.  He  had 
been  enveloped  in  the  Will  that  makes  all  wills  as  one, 
the  will  of  a  common  purpose;  and  it  had  changed  his  at- 
titude towards  his  troubles,  towards  his  past,  towards 
his  future. 

What  Barry  had  said  to  him,  and  especially  the  tale  of 
the  New-Zealander,  had  revealed  the  change  which  had 
taken  place.  The  War  had  purged  his  mind,  cleared  his 
vision.  When  he  left  England  he  was  immersed  in  egoism, 
submerged  by  his  own  miseries.  He  had  isolated  him- 
self in  a  lazaretto  of  self-reproach  and  resentment.  The 
universe  was  tottering  because  a  woman  had  played  him 
false.  Because  of  this  obsession  of  self,  he  was  eager  to 
be  done  with  it  all,  to  pay  a  price  which  he  might  have 
paid,  had  it  been  possible  to  meet  Rudyard  pistol  or  sword 
in  hand,  and  die  as  many  such  a  man  has  done,  without 
trying  to  save  his  own  life  or  to  take  the  life  of  another. 
That  he  could  not  do.  Rudyard  did  not  know  the  truth, 
had  not  the  faintest  knowledge  that  Jasmine  had  been 
more  to  himself  than  an  old  and  dear  friend.  To  pay  the 
price  in  any  other  way  than  by  eliminating  himself  from 
the  equation  was  to  smirch  her  name,  be  the  ruin  of  a 
home,  and  destroy  all  hope  for  the  future. 

It  had  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  no  other  way 
than  to  disappear  honourably  through  one  of  the  hundred 
gates  which  the  war  would  open  to  him — to  go  where 
Death  ambushed  the  reckless  or  the  brave,  and  take  the 
stroke  meant  for  him,  on  a  field  of  honour  all  too  kind  to 
himself  and  soothing  to  those  good  friends  who  would 
mourn  his  going,  those  who  hoped  for  him  the  now 
unattainable  things. 

In  a  spirit  of  stoic  despair  he  had  come  to  the  seat  of 
war.  He  had  invited  Destiny  to  sweep  him  up  in  her 
412 


"THE    ALPINE    FELLOW" 

reaping,  by  placing  himself  in  the  ambit  of  her  scythe; 
but  the  sharp  reaping-hook  had  passed  him  by. 

The  innumerable  exits  were  there  in  the  wall  of  life, 
and  none  had  opened  to  him ;  but  since  the  evening  when 
he  saw  Jasmine  at  the  railway  station,  there  had  been  an 
opening  of  doors  in  his  soul  hitherto  hidden.  Beyond 
these  doors  he  saw  glimpses  of  a  new  world — not  like 
the  one  he  had  lived  in,  not  so  green,  so  various,  or 
tumultuous,  but  it  had  the  lure  of  that  peace,  not  sterile 
or  somnolent,  which  summons  the  burdened  life,  or  the 
soul  with  a  vocation,  to  the  hood  of  a  monk — a  busy  self- 
forgetfulness. 

Looking  after  Barry  Whalen's  retreating  figure  he  saw 
this  new,  grave  world  opening  out  before  him;  and 
as  the  vision  floated  before  his  eyes,  Barry's  appeal 
that  he  should  visit  Jasmine  at  the  hospital  came 
to  him. 

Jasmine  suffered.  He  recalled  Barry's  words :  ' '  She's  as 
thin  as  she  once  wasn't,  but  twice  as  beautiful.  Her  eyes 
are  as  big  as  stars,  and  she  can  smile  still,  but  it's  a  new  one 
— a  war-smile,  I  expect.  Everything  gets  a  turn  of  its  own 
at  the  Front." 

Jasmine  suffered  in  body.  He  knew  that  she  suffered 
in  mind  also.  To  go  to  her?  Was  that  his  duty?  Was 
it  his  desire?  Did  his  heart  cry  out  for  it  either  in  pity — 
or  in  love? 

In  love?  Slowly  a  warm  flood  of  feeling  passed  through 
him.  It  was  dimly  borne  in  on  him,  as  he  gazed  at  the 
hospital  in  the  distance,  that  this  thing  called  Love,  which 
seizes  upon  our  innermost  selves,  which  takes  up  residence 
in  the  inner  sanctuary,  may  not  be  dislodged.  It  stays 
on  when  the  darkness  comes,  reigning  in  the  gloom. 
Even  betrayal,  injury,  tyranny,  do  not  drive  it  forth.  It 
continues.  No  longer  is  the  curtain  drawn  aside  for 
tribute,  for  appeal,  or  for  adoration,  but  It  remains  until 
the  last  footfall  dies  in  the  temple,  and  the  portals  are 
closed  forever. 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

For  Stafford  the  curtain  was  drawn  before  the  shrine; 
but  love  was  behind  the  curtain  still. 

He  would  not  go  to  her  as  Barry  had  asked.  There  in 
Brinkwort's  house  in  the  covert  of  peaches  and  pome- 
granates was  the  man  and  the  only  man  who  should,  who 
must,  bring  new  bloom  to  her  cheek.  Her  suffering  would 
carry  her  to  Rudyard  at  the  last,  unless  it  might  be 
that  one  or  the  other  of  them  had  taken  Adrian  Fellowes' 
life.  If  either  had  done  that,  there  could  be  no  reunion. 

He  did  not  know  what  Al'mah  had  told  Jasmine,  the 
thing  which  had  cleared  Jasmine's  vision,  and  made  pos- 
sible a  path  which  should  lead  from  the  hospital  to  the 
house  among  the  orchard-trees  at  Brinkwort's  Farm. 

No,  he  would  not,  could  not  go  to  Jasmine — unless,  it 
might  be,  she  was  dying.  A  sudden,  sharp  anxiety  pos- 
sessed him.  If,  as  Barry  Whalen  suggested,  one  of  those 
ugly  turns  should  come,  which  illnesses  take  in  camp, 
and  she  should  die  without  a  friend  near  her,  without 
Rudyard  by  her  side!  He  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode 
towards  the  hospital. 

His  inquiries  at  the  hospital  relieved  his  mind.  "If 
there  is  no  turn  for  the  worse,  no  complications,  she 
will  go  on  all  right,  and  will  be  convalescent  in  a  few 
days,"  the  medicine-man  had  said. 

He  gave  instructions  for  a  message  to  be  sent  to  him 
if  there  was  any  change  for  the  worse.  His  first  impulse, 
to  tell  them  not  to  let  her  know  he  had  inquired,  he  set 
aside.  There  must  not  be  subterfuge  or  secrecy  any 
longer.  Let  Destiny  take  her  course. 

As  he  left  the  hospital,  he  heard  a  wounded  Boer 
prisoner  say  to  a  Tommy  who  had  fought  with  him  on 
opposite  sides  in  the  same  engagement,  "Alles  zal  recht 
kom!"  All  will  come  right,  was  the  English  of  it. 

Out  of  the  agony  of  conflict  would  all  come  right — for 
Boer,  for  Briton,  for  Rudyard,  for  Jasmine,  for  himself, 
for  Al'mah? 

414 


"THE    ALPINE    FELLOW" 

As  he  entered  his  tent  again,  he  was  handed  his  mail, 
which  had  just  arrived.  The  first  letter  he  touched  had 
the  postmark  of  Durban.  The  address  on  the  envelope 
was  in  the  handwriting  of  Lady  Tynemouth. 

He  almost  shrank  from  opening  it,  because  of  the 
tragedy  which  had  come  to  the  husband  of  the  woman 
who  had  been  his  faithful  friend  over  so  many  years.  At 
an  engagement  a  month  before,  Tynemouth  had  been 
blinded  by  shrapnel,  and  had  been  sent  to  Durban. 
To  the  two  letters  he  had  written  there  had  come  no 
answer  until  now;  and  he  felt  that  this  reply  would 
be  a  plaint  against  Fate,  a  rebellion  against  the  future 
restraint  and  trial  and  responsibility  which  would  be  put 
upon  the  wife,  who  was  so  much  of  the  irresponsible  world. 

After  a  moment,  however,  he  muttered  a  reproach 
against  his  own  darkness  of  spirit  and  his  lack  of  faith 
in  her  womanliness,  and  opened  the  envelope. 

It  was  not  the  letter  he  had  imagined  and  feared.  It 
began  by  thanking  him  for  his  own  letter,  and  then  it 
plunged  into  the  heart  of  her  trouble: 

".  .  .  .  Tynie  is  blind.  He  will  never  see  again.  But  his  face 
seems  to  me  quite  beautiful.  It  shines,  Ian:  beauty  comes  from 
within.  Poor  old  Tynie,  who  would  have  thought  that  the  world 
he  loved  couldn't  make  that  light  in  his  face!  I  never  saw  it  there 
— did  you?  It  is  just  giving  up  one's  self  to  the  Inevitable.  I 
suppose  we  mostly  are  giving  up  ourselves  to  Ourselves,  thinking 
always  of  our  own  pleasure  and  profit  and  pride,  never  being 
content,  pushing  on  and  on.  ...  Ian,  I'm  not  going  to  push  on 
any  more.  I've  done  with  the  Climbers.  There's  too  much  of 
the  Climbers  in  us  all — not  social  climbing,  I  mean,  but  wanting 
to  get  somewhere  that  has  something  for  us,  out  in  the  big  material 
world.  When  I  look  at  Tynie — he's  lying  there  so  peaceful — you 
might  think  it  is  a  prison  he  is  in.  It  isn't.  He's  set  free  into  a 
world  where  he  had  never  been.  He's  set  free  in  a  world  of  light 
that  never  blinds  us.  If  he'd  lived  to  be  a  hundred  with  the  sight 
of  his  eyes,  he'd  never  have  known  that  there's  a  world  that  belongs 
to  Allah, — I  love  that  word,  it  sounds  so  great  and  yet  so  friendly, 
so  gentler  than  the  name  by  which  we  call  the  First  One  in  our  lan- 
guage and  our  religion — and  that  world  is  inside  ourselves.  .  .  .  Tynie 
is  always  thinking  of  other  people  now,  wondering  what  they  are 
415 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

doing  and  how  they  are  doing  it.  He  was  talking  about  you  a  little 
while  ago,  and  so  admiringly.  It  brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes. 
Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  Ian,  that  our  friendship  has  always  been  so  much 
on  the  surface,  so  'void  of  offence' — is  that  the  phrase?  I  can  look 
at  it  without  wincing;  and  I  am  glad.  It  never  was  a  thing  of  im- 
portance to  you,  for  I  am  not  important,  and  there  was  no  weight  of 
life  in  it  or  in  me.  But  even  the  butterfly  has  its  uses,  and  maybe 
I  was  meant  to  play  a  little  part  in  your  big  life.  I  like  to  think  it 
was  so.  Sometimes  a  bright  day  gets  a  little  more  interest  from  the 
drone  of  the  locust  or  the  glow  of  a  butterfly's  wings.  I'm  not  sure 
that  the  locust's  droning  and  the  bright  flutter  of  the  butterfly's 
wings  are  not  the  way  Nature  has  of  fastening  the  soul  to  the  mean- 
ing of  it  all.  I  wonder  if  you  ever  heard  the  lines — foolish  they  read, 
but  they  are  not: 

"'All  summer  long  there  was  one  little  butterfly, 

Flying  ahead  of  me, 
Wings  red  and  yellow,  a  pretty  little  fellow, 

Flying  ahead  of  me. 
One  little  butterfly,  one  little  butterfly, 

What  can  his  message  be? — 
All  summer  long,  there  was  one  little  butterfly 

Flying  ahead  of  me.' 

"It  may  be  so  that  the  poet  meant  the  butterfly  to  mean  the  joy 
of  things,  the  hope  of  things,  the  love  of  things  flying  ahead  to  draw 
us  on  and  on  into  the  sunlight  and  up  the  steeps,  and  over  the  higher 
hills. 

"Ian,  I  would  like  to  be  such  a  butterfly  in  your  eyes  at  this  mo- 
ment; perhaps  the  insignificant  means  of  making  you  see  the  near 
thing  to  do,  and  by  doing  it  get  a  step  on  towards  the  Far  Thing. 
You  used  always  to  think  of  the  Far  Thing.  Ah,  what  ambition 
you  had  when  I  first  knew  you  on  the  Zambesi,  when  the  old  red 
umbrella,  but  for  you,  would  have  carried  me  over  into  the  mist 
and  the  thunder!  Well,  you  have  lost  that  ambition.  I  know 
why  you  came  out  here.  No  one  ever  told  me.  The  thing  behind 
the  words  in  your  letter  tells  me  plainer  than  words.  The  last 
time  I  saw  you  in  London — do  you  remember  when  it  was?  It 
was  the  day  that  Rudyard  Byng  drove  Krool  into  Park  Lane  with 
the  sjambok.  Well,  that  last  time,  when  I  met  you  in  the  hall, 
as  we  were  both  leaving  a  house  of  trouble,  I  felt  the  truth.  Do 
you  remember  the  day  I  went  to  see  you  when  Mr.  Mappin  came? 
I  felt  the  truth  then  more.  I  often  wondered  how  I  could  ever  help 
you  in  the  old  days.  That  was  an  ambition  of  mine.  But  I  had 
no  brains— no  brains  like  Jasmine's  and  many  another  woman ;  and 
416 


"THE    ALPINE    FELLOW" 

I  was  never  able  to  do  anything.  But  now  I  feel  as  I  never  felt  any- 
thing before  in  my  life.  I  feel  that  my  time  and  my  chance  have 
come.  I  feel  like  a  prophetess,  like  Miriam, — or  was  it  Deborah? — 
and  that  I  must  wind  the  horn  of  warning  as  you  walk  on  the  edge 
of  the  precipice. 

"Ian,  it's  only  little  souls  who  do  the  work  that  should  be  left  to 
Allah,  and  I  don't  believe  that  you  can  take  the  reins  out  of  Allah's 
hands, — He  lets  you  do  it,  of  course,  if  you  insist,  for  a  wilful  child 
must  be  taught  his  lesson — without  getting  smashed  up  at  a  sharp 
corner  that  you  haven't  learnt  to  turn.  Ian,  there's  work  for  you  to 
do.  Even  Tynie  thinks  that  he  can  do  some  work  still.  He  sees 
he  can,  as  he  never  did  before;  and  he  talks  of  you  as  a  man  who  can 
do  anything  if  you  will.  He  says  that  if  England  wanted  a  strong 
man  before  the  war  she  will  want  a  stronger  man  afterwards  to  pick 
up  the  pieces,  and  put  them  all  together  again.  He  says  that  after  we 
win,  reconstruction  in  South  Africa  will  be  a  work  as  big  as  was  ever 
given  to  a  man,  because,  if  it  should  fail,  'down  will  go  the  whole 
Imperial  show ' — that's  Tynie's  phrase.  And  he  says,  why  shouldn't 
you  do  it  here,  or  why  shouldn't  you  be  the  man  who  will  guide  it  all 
in  England?  You  found  the  key  to  England's  isolation,  to  her  for- 
eign problem, — I'm  quoting  Tynie — which  meant  that  the  other  na- 
tions keep  hands  off  in  this  fight ;  well,  why  shouldn't  you  find  another 
key,  that  to  the  future  of  this  Empire?  You  got  European  peace 
for  England,  and  now  the  problem  is  how  to  make  this  Empire  a 
real  thing.  Tynie  says  this,  not  me.  His  command  of  English 
is  better  than  mine,  but  neither  of  us  would  make  a  good  private 
secretary,  if  we  had  to  write  letters  with  words  of  over  two  syllables. 
I've  told  you  what  Tynie  says,  but  he  doesn't  know  at  all  what  I 
know;  he  doesn't  see  the  danger  I  see;  doesn't  realize  the  mad 
thing  in  your  brain,  the  sad  thing  weighing  down  your  heart — and 
hers. 

"Ian,  I  feel  it  on  my  own  heart,  and  I  want  it  lifted  away.  Your 
letter  has  only  one  word  in  it  really.  That  word  is  Finis.  I  say,  it 
must  not,  shall  not,  be  Finis.  Look  at  the  escapes  you  have  had  in 
this  war.  Is  not  that  enough  to  prove  that  you  have  a  long  way 
to  go  yet,  and  that  you  have  to  '  make  good '  the  veld  as  you  trek. 
To  outspan  now  would  be  a  crime.  It  would  spoil  a  great  life,  it 
would  darken  memory — even  mine,  Ian.  I  must  speak  the  truth. 
I  want  you,  we  all  want  you,  to  be  the  big  man  you  are  at  heart. 
Do  not  be  a  Lassalle.  It  is  too  small.  If  one  must  be  a  slave,  then 
let  it  be  to  something  greater  than  one's  self,  higher — toweringly, 
unattainably  higher.  Believe  me,  neither  the  girl  you  love  nor  any 
woman  on  earth  is  entitled  to  hold  in  slavery  the  energies  and  the 
mind  and  hopes  of  a  man  who  can  do  big  things — or  any  man 
at  all. 

417 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"Ian,  Tynie  and  I  have  our  trials,  but  we  are  going  to  live  them 
down.  At  first  Tynie  wanted  to  die,  but  he  soon  said  he  would  see 
it  through — blind  at  forty.  You  have  had  your  trials,  you  have 
them  still;  but  every  gift  of  man  is  yours,  and  every  opportunity. 
Will  you  not  live  it  all  out  to  the  end?  Allah  knows  the  exit  He 
wants  for  us,  and  He  must  resent  our  breaking  a  way  out  of  the 
prison  of  our  own  making. 

"You've  no  idea  how  this  life  of  work  with  Jasmine  has  brought 
things  home  to  me — and  to  Jasmine  too.  When  I  see  the  multitude 
of  broken  and  maimed  victims  of  war,  well,  I  feel  like  Jeremiah ;  but 
I  feel  sad  too  that  these  poor  fellows  and  those  they  love  must  suffer 
in  order  to  teach  us  our  lesson — us  and  England.  Dear  old  friend, 
great  man,  I  am  going  to  quote  a  verse  Tynie  read  to  me  last  night — 
oh,  how  strange  that  seems!  Yet  it  was  so  in  a  sense,  he  did  read  to 
me.  Tynie  made  me  say  the  words  from  the  book,  but  he  read  into 
them  all  that  they  were,  he  that  never  drew  a  literary  breath.  It 
was  a  poem  Jasmine  quoted  to  him  a  fortnight  ago — Browning's 
'Grammarian,'  and  he  stopped  me  at  these  words: 

'"Thither  our  path  lies;    wind  we  up  the  heights: 

Wait  ye  the  warning? 

Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the  night's; 
He's  for  the  morning.' 

"Tynie  stopped  me  there,  and  said,  'That's  Stafford.  He's  the 
Alpine  fellow!'  .  .  ." 

A  few  sentences  more  and  then  the  letter  ended  on  a 
note  of  courage,  solicitude  and  friendship.  And  at  the 
very  last  she  said: 

"It  isn't  always  easy  to  find  the  key  to  things,  but  you  will  find 
it,  not  because  you  are  so  clever,  but  because  at  heart  you  are  so 
good.  .  .  .  We  both  send  our  love,  and  don't  forget  that  England 
hasn't  had  a  tenth  of  her  share  of  Ian  Stafford.  .  .  ." 

Then  there  followed  a  postscript  which  ran: 

"I  always  used  to  say,  'When  my  ship  comes  home,'  I'd  have  this 
or  that.  Well,  here  is  the  ship — mine  and  Jasmine's,  and  it  has 
come  Home  for  me,  and  for  Jasmine,  too,  I  hope." 

Stafford  looked  out  over  the  veld.     He  saw  the  light 
of  the  sun,  the  joy  of  summer,  the  flowers,  the  buoyant 
418 


"THE    ALPINE    FELLOW" 

hills,  where  all  the  guns  were  silent  now;  he  saw  a  bles- 
bok  in  the  distance  leaping  to  join  its  fellows  of  a  herd 
which  had  strayed  across  the  fields  of  war;  he  felt  that  stir 
of  vibrant  life  in  the  air  which  only  the  new  lands  know; 
and  he  raised  his  head  with  the  light  of  resolve  growing 
in  his  eyes. 

"Don't  forget  that  England  hasn't  had  a  tenth  of  her 
share  of  Ian  Stafford,"  Alice  Tynemouth  had  said. 

Looking  round,  he  saw  men  whose  sufferings  were  no 
doubt  as  great  as  his  own  or  greater;  but  they  were  living 
on  for  others'  sakes.  Despair  retreated  before  a  woman's 
insight. 

"The  Alpine  fellow"  wanted  to  live  now. 


CHAPTER   XXXV 
AT  BRINKWORT'S  FARM 

"  "t  X  7  HAT  are  you  doing  here,  Krool?"    The  face  of  the 

V  V  half-caste  had  grown  more  furtive  than  it  was  in 
the  London  days,  and  as  he  looked  at  Stafford  now,  it 
had  a  malignant  expression  which  showed  through  the 
mask  of  his  outward  self-control. 

"I  am  prisoner,"  Krool  answered  thickly. 

"When — where?"  Stafford  inquired,  his  eye  holding 
the  other's. 

"At  Hetmeyer's  Kopje." 

"But  what  are  you — a  prisoner — doing  here  at  Brink- 
wort's  Farm?" 

"I  was  hurt.  They  take  me  hospital,  but  the  Baas, 
he  send  for  me." 

"They  let  you  come  without  a  guard?" 

"No — not.  They  are  outside" — Krool  jerked  a  finger 
towards  the  rear  of  the  house — "with  the  biltong  and  the 
dop." 

"You  are  a  liar,  Krool.  There  may  be  biltong,  but 
there  is  no  dop." 

"  What  matters !"  Krool's  face  had  a  leer.  He  looked 
impudently  at  Stafford,  and  Stafford  read  the  meaning 
behind  the  unveiled  insolence:  Krool  knew  what  no  one 
else  but  Jasmine  and  himself  knew  with  absolute  certainty. 
Krool  was  in  his  own  country,  more  than  half  a  savage, 
with  the  lust  of  war  in  his  blood,  with  memories  of  a  day 
in  Park  Lane  when  the  sjambok  had  done  its  ugly  work, 
and  Ian  Stafford  had,  as  Krool  believed,  placed  it  in  the 
hands  of  the  Baas. 

420 


AT    BRINKWORT'S    FARM 

It  might  be  that  this  dark  spirit,  this  Nibelung  of  the 
tragedy  of  the  House  of  Byng,  would  even  yet,  when  the 
way  was  open  to  a  reconstructed  life  for  Jasmine  and 
Rudyard,  bring  catastrophe. 

The  thought  sickened  him,  and  then  black  anger  took 
possession  of  him.  The  look  he  cast  on  the  bent  figure 
before  him  in  the  threadbare  frock-coat  which  had  been 
taken  from  the  back  of  some  dead  Boer,  with  the  corded 
breeches  stuck  in  boots  too  large  for  him,  and  the  khaki 
hat  which  some  vanished  Tommy  would  never  wear 
again,  was  resolute  and  vengeful. 

Krool  must  not  stay  at  Brinkwort's  Farm.  He  must 
be  removed.  If  the  Caliban  told  Rudyard  what  he  knew, 
there  could  be  but  one  end  to  it  all;  and  Jasmine's  life, 
if  not  ruined,  must  ever  be,  even  at  the  best,  lived  under 
the  cover  of  magnanimity  and  compassion.  That  would 
break  her  spirit,  would  take  from  her  the  radiance  of 
temperament  which  alone  could  make  life  tolerable  to 
her  or  to  others  who  might  live  with  her  under  the  same 
roof.  Anxiety  possessed  him,  and  he  swiftly  devised 
means  to  be  rid  of  Krool  before  harm  could  be  done.  He 
was  certain  harm  was  meant — there  was  a  look  of  semi- 
insanity  in  Krool's  eyes.  Krool  must  be  put  out  of  the 
way  before  he  could  speak  with  the  Baas.  .  .  .  But  how? 

With  a  great  effort  Stafford  controlled  himself.  Krool 
must  be  got  rid  of  at  once,  must  be  sent  back  to  the 
prisoners'  quarters  and  kept  there.  He  must  not  see 
Byng  now.  In  a  few  more  hours  the  army  would 
move  on,  leaving  the  prisoners  behind,  and  Rudyard 
would  presently  move  on  with  the  army.  This  was 
Byng's  last  day  at  Brinkwort's  Farm,  to  which  he  him- 
self had  come  to-day  lest  Rudyard  should  take  note  of 
his  neglect,  and  their  fellow-officers  should  remark  that 
the  old  friendship  had  grown  cold,  and  perhaps  begin  to 
guess  at  the  reason  why. 

"You  say  the  Baas  sent  for  you?"  he  asked  presently. 

"Yes." 

421 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"To  sjambok  you  again?" 

Krool  made  a  gesture  of  contempt.  "I  save  the  Baas 
at  Hetmeyer's  Kopje.  I  kill  Piet  Graaf  to  do  it." 

There  was  a  look  of  assurance  in  the  eyes  of  the  mon- 
grel, which  sent  a  wave  of  coldness  through  Stafford's 
veins  and  gave  him  fresh  anxiety. 

He  was  in  despair.  He  knew  Byng's  great,  generous 
nature,  and  he  dreaded  the  inconsistency  which  such  men 
show — forgiving  and  forgetting  when  the  iron  penalty 
should  continue  and  the  chains  of  punishment  remain. 

He  determined  to  know  the  worst.  "Traitor  all 
round!"  he  said  presently  with  contempt.  "You  saved 
the  Baas  by  killing  Piet  Graaf — have  you  told  the  Baas 
that?  Has  any  one  told  the  Baas  that?  The  sjambok 
is  the  Baas'  cure  for  the  traitor,  and  sometimes  it  kills 
to  cure.  Do  you  think  that  the  Baas  would  want  his 
life  through  the  killing  of  Piet  Graaf  by  his  friend  Krool, 
the  slim  one  from  the  slime?" 

As  a  sudden  tempest  twists  and  bends  a  tree,  contorts 
it,  bows  its  branches  to  the  dust,  transforms  it  from  a 
thing  of  beauty  to  a  hag  of  Walpurgis,  so  Stafford's  words 
transformed  Krool.  A  passion  of  rage  possessed  him. 
He  looked  like  one  of  the  creatures  that  waited  on  Wotan 
in  the  nether  places.  He  essayed  to  speak,  but  at  first 
could  not.  His  body  bent  forward,  and  his  fingers  spread 
out  in  a  spasm  of  hatred,  then  clinched  with  the  stroke 
of  a  hammer  on  his  knees,  and  again  opened  and  shut  in 
a  gesture  of  loathsome  cruelty. 

At  length  he  spoke,  and  Stafford  listened  intently,  for 
now  Caliban  was  off  his  guard,  and  he  knew  the  worst 
that  was  meant. 

"Ah,  you  speak  of  traitor — you!  The  sjambok  for  the 
traitor,  eh?  The  sjambok — fifty  strokes,  a  hunderd  strokes 
— a  t'ousand!  Krool — Krool  is  a  traitor,  and  the  sjam- 
bok for  him.  What  did  he  do?  What  did  Krool  do? 
He  help  Oom  Paul  against  the  Rooinek — against  the  Phil- 
istine. He  help  the  chosen  against  the  children  of  Hell. 
422 


AT    BRINKWORT'S    FARM 

What  did  Krool  do?  He  tell  Oom  Paul  how  the  thieves 
would  to  come  in  the  night  to  sold  him  like  sheep  to  a 
butcher,  how  the  t'ousand  wolves  would  swarm  upon  the 
sheepfold,  and  there  would  be  no  homes  for  the  voortrek- 
ker  and  his  vrouw,  how  the  Outlander  would  sit  on  our 
stoeps  and  pick  the  peaches  from  our  gardens.  And  he 
tell  him  other  things  good  for  him  to  hear." 

Stafford  was  conscious  of  the  smell  of  orchard  blossoms 
blown  through  the  open  window,  of  the  odour  of  the  pome- 
granate in  the  hedge;  but  his  eyes  were  fascinated  by  the 
crouching  passion  of  the  figure  before  him  and  the  dis- 
sonance of  the  low,  unhuman  voice.  There  was  no  pause 
in  the  broken,  turgid  torrent,  which  was  like  a  muddy 
flood  pouring  over  the  boulders  of  a  rapid. 

"Who  the  traitor  is?  Is  it  the  man  that  tries  to  save 
his  homeland  from  the  wolf  and  the  worm?  I  kill  Piet 
Graaf  to  save  the  Baas.  The  Baas  an'  I,  we  understand 
— on  the  Limpopo  we  make  the  unie.  He  is  the  Baas,  and 
I  am  his  slave.  All  else  nothing  is.  I  kill  all  the  people 
of  the  Baas'  country,  but  I  die  for  the  Baas.  The  Baas 
kill  me  if  he  will  it.  So  it  was  set  down  in  the  bond  on 
the  Limpopo.  If  the  Baas  strike,  he  strike;  if  he  kill,  he 
kill.  It  is  in  the  bond,  it  is  set  down.  All  else  go.  Piet 
Graaf,  he  go.  Oom  Paul,  he  go.  Joubert,  Cronje, 
Botha,  they  all  go,  if  the  Baas  speak.  It  is  written  so. 
On  the  Limpopo  it  is  written.  All  must  go,  if  the  Baas 
speak — one,  two,  three,  a  t'ousand.  Else  the  bond  is 
water,  and  the  spirits  come  in  the  night,  and  take  you  to 
the  million  years  of  torment.  It  is  nothing  to  die — pah! 
But  only  the  Baas  is  kill  me.  It  is  written  so.  Only  the 
Baas  can  hurt  me.  Not  you,  nor  all  the  verdomde 
Rooineks  out  there" — he  pointed  to  the  vast  camp  out 
on  the  veld — "nor  the  Baas'  vrouw.  Do  I  not  know  all 
about  the  Baas'  vrouw!  She  cannot  hurt  me  ..."  He 
spat  on  the  ground.  "Who  is  the  traitor?  Is  it  Krool? 
Did  Krool  steal  from  the  Baas?  Krool  is  the  Baas' 
slave;  'it  is  only  the  friend  of  the  Baas  that  steal  from 
28  423 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

him — only  him  is  traitor.  I  kill  Piet  Graaf  to  save  the 
Baas.  No  one  kills  you  to  save  the  Baas !  I  saw  you  with 
your  arms  round  the  Baas'  vrouw.  So  I  go  tell  the  Baas 
all.  If  he  kiU  me— it  is  the  Baas.  It  is  written." 

He  spat  on  the  ground  again,  and  his  eyes  grown  red 
with  his  passion  glowered  on  Stafford  like  those  of  some 
animal  of  the  jungle. 

Stafford's  face  was  white,  and  every  nerve  in  his  body 
seemed  suddenly  to  be  wrenched  by  the  hand  of  torture. 
What  right  had  he  to  resent  this  abominable  tirade,  this 
loathsome  charge  by  such  a  beast?  Yet  he  would 
have  shot  where  he  stood  the  fellow  who  had  spoken  so 
of  "the  Baas'  vrouw,"  if  it  had  not  come  to  him  with 
sudden  conviction  that  the  end  was  not  to  be  this  way. 
Ever  since  he  had  read  Alice  Tynemouth's  letter  a  new 
spirit  had  been  working  in  him.  He  must  do  nothing 
rash.  There  was  enough  stain  on  his  hands  now  without 
the  added  stain  of  blood.  But  he  must  act;  he  must 
prevent  Krool  from  telling  the  Baas.  Yonder  at  the  hos- 
pital was  Jasmine,  and  she  and  her  man  must  come 
together  here  in  this  peaceful  covert  before  Rudyard 
went  forward  with  the  army.  It  must  be  so. 

Two  sentries  were  beyond  the  doorway.  He  stepped 
quickly  to  the  stoep  and  summoned  them.  They  came. 
Krool  watched  with  eyes  that,  at  first,  did  not  understand. 

Stafford  gave  an  order.  "Take  the  prisoner  to  the 
guard.  They  will  at  once  march  him  back  to  the  pris- 
oners' camp." 

Now  Krool  understood,  and  he  made  as  if  to  spring  on 
Stafford,  but  a  pistol  suddenly  faced  him,  and  he  knew  well 
that  what  Stafford  would  not  do  in  cold  blood,  he  would 
do  in  the  exercise  of  his  duty  and  as  a  soldier  before  these 
Rooinek  privates.  He  stood  still ;  he  made  no  resistance. 

But  suddenly  his  voice  rang  out  in  a  guttural  cry— 
"Baas!" 

In  an  instant  a  hand  was  clapped  on  his  mouth,  and  his 
own  dirty  neckcloth  provided  a  gag. 
424 


AT    BRINKWORT'S    FARM 

The  storm  was  over.  The  native  blood  in  him  acknowl- 
edged the  logic  of  superior  force,  and  he  walked  out  quietly 
between  the  sentries.  Stafford's  move  was  regular  from 
a  military  point  of  view.  He  was  justified  in  disposing 
of  a  dangerous  and  recalcitrant  prisoner.  He  could  find  a 
sufficient  explanation  if  he  was  challenged. 

As  he  turned  round  from  the  doorway  through  which 
Krool  had  disappeared,  he  saw  Al'mah,  who  had  entered 
from  another  room  during  the  incident. 

A  light  came  to  Stafford's  face.  They  two  derelicts 
of  life  had  much  in  common — the  communion  of  sinners 
who  had  been  so  much  sinned  against. 

"I  heard  his  last  words  about  you  and — her,"  she  said 
in  a  low  voice. 

"Where  is  Byng?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"In  the  kloof  near  by.     He  will  be  back  presently." 

"Thank  God!" 

Al'mah's  face  was  anxious.  "I  don't  know  what  you 
are  going  to  say  to  him,  or  why  you  have  come,"  she  said, 
"but — " 

"I  have  come  to  congratulate  him  on  his  recovery." 

"I  understand.  I  want  to  say  some  things  to  you. 
You  should  know  them  before  you  see  him.  There  is  the 
matter  of  Adrian  Fellowes." 

"What  about  Adrian  Fellowes?"  Stafford  asked  evenly, 
yet  he  felt  his  heart  give  a  bound  and  his  brain  throb. 

" Does  it  matter  to  you  now?  At  the  inquest  you  were 
— concerned." 

"I  am  more  concerned  now,"  he  rejoined  huskily. 

He  suddenly  held  out  a  hand  to  her  with  a  smile  of  rare 
friendliness.  There  came  over  him  again  the  feeling  he 
had  at  the  hospital  when  they  talked  together  last,  that 
whatever  might  come  of  all  the  tragedy  and  sorrow  around 
them  they  two  must  face  irretrievable  loss. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  as  she  took  his  out- 
stretched hand  she  said,  "Yes,  I  will  take  it  while  I  can." 

Her  eyes  went  slowly  round  the  room  as  though  looking 
425 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

for  something — some  point  where  they  might  rest  and 
gather  courage  maybe,  then  they  steadied  to  his  firmly. 

"You  knew  Adrian  Fellowes  did  not  die  a  natural 
death — I  saw  that  at  the  inquest." 

"Yes,  I  knew." 

"It  was  a  poisoned  needle." 

"I  know.     I  found  the  needle." 

"Ah!  I  threw  it  down  afterwards.     I  forgot  about  it." 

Slowly  the  colour  left  Stafford's  face,  as  the  light  of 
revelation  broke  in  upon  his  brain.  Why  had  he  never 
suspected  her?  His  brain  was  buzzing  with  sounds  which 
came  from  inner  voices — voices  of  old  thoughts  and  im- 
aginings, like  little  beings  in  a  dark  forest  hovering  on  the 
march  of  the  discoverer.  She  was  speaking,  but  her  voice 
seemed  to  come  through  a  clouded  medium  from  a  great 
distance  to  him. 

"He  had  hurt  me  more  than  any  other — than  my  hus- 
band or  her.  I  did  it.  I  would  do  it  again.  ...  I  had 
been  good  to  him.  ...  I  had  suffered,  I  wanted  something 
for  all  I  had  lost,  and  he  was  ..." 

Her  voice  trailed  away  into  nothing,  then  rose  again 
presently.  "I  am  not  sorry.  Perhaps  you  wonder  at 
that.  But  no,  I  do  not  hate  myself  for  it — only  for  all  that 
went  before  it.  I  will  pay,  if  I  have  to  pay,  in  my  own 
way.  .  .  .  Thousands  of  women  die  who  are  killed  by  hands 
that  carry  no  weapon.  They  die  of  misery  and  shame 
and  regret.  .  .  .  This  one  man  died  because  ..." 

He  did  not  hear,  or  if  he  heard  he  did  not  realize  what 
she  was  saying  now.  One  thought  was  ringing  through 
his  mind  like  bells  pealing.  The  gulf  of  horrible  suspicion 
between  Rudyard  and  Jasmine  was  closed.  So  long  as  it 
yawned,  so  long  as  there  was  between  them  the  account- 
ing for  Adrian  Fellowes'  death,  they  might  have  come 
together,  but  there  would  always  have  been  a  black 
shadow  between — the  shadow  that  hangs  over  the  scaffold. 

"They  should  know  the  truth,"  he  said  almost  peremp- 
torily. 

426 


AT    BRINKWORT'S    FARM 

"They  both  know,"  she  rejoined  calmly.  "I  told  him 
this  evening.  On  the  day  I  saw  you  at  the  hospital,  I 
told  her." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  said: 
"She  must  come  here  before  he  joins  his  regiment." 

"  I  saw  her  last  night  at  the  hospital,"  Al'mah  answered. 
"She  was  better.  She  was  preparing  to  go  to  Durban. 
I  did  not  ask  her  if  she  was  coming,  but  I  was  sure 
she  was  not.  So,  just  now,  before  you  came,  I  sent  a 
message  to  her.  It  will  bring  her.  ...  It  does  not  matter 
what  a  woman  like  me  does." 

"What  did  you  say  to  her?" 

"I  wrote,  'If  you  wish  to  see  him  before  the  end,  come 
quickly.'  She  will  think  he  is  dying." 

"If  she  resents  the  subterfuge?" 

"Risks  must  be  taken.  If  he  goes  without  their  meet- 
ing— who  can  tell!  Now  is  the  time — now.  I  want 
to  see  it.  It  must  be." 

He  reached  out  both  hands  and  took  hers,  while  she 
grew  pale.  Her  eyes  had  a  strange  childishly  frightened 
look. 

"You  are  a  good  woman,  Al'mah,"  he  said. 

A  quivering,  ironical  laugh  burst  from  her  lips.  Then, 
suddenly,  her  eyes  were  suffused. 

"The  world  would  call  it  the  New  Goodness  then," 
she  replied  in  a  voice  which  told  how  deep  was  the  well  of 
misery  in  her  being. 

"It  is  as  old  as  Allah,"  he  replied. 

"Or  as  old  as  Cain?"  she  responded,  then  added 
quickly,  "Hush!  He  is  coming." 

An  instant  afterwards  she  was  outside  among  the  peach- 
trees,  and  Rudyard  and  Stafford  faced  each  other  in 
the  room  she  had  just  left. 

As  Al'mah  stood  looking  into  the  quivering  light  upon 
the  veld,  her  fingers  thrust  among  the  blossoms  of  a  tree 
which  bent  over  her,  she  heard  horses'  hoofs,  and  presently 
427 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

there  came  round  the  corner  of  the  house  two  mounted 
soldiers  who  had  brought  Krool  to  Brinkwort's  Farm. 
Their  prisoner  was  secured  to  a  stirrup-leather,  and  the 
neckcloth  was  still  binding  his  mouth. 

As  they  passed,  Krool  turned  towards  the  house,  eyes 
showing  like  flames  under  the  khaki  trooper's  hat,  which 
added  fresh  incongruity  to  the  frock-coat  and  the  huge 
top-boots. 

The  guard  were  now  returning  to  their  post  at  the  door- 
way. 

"What  has  happened?"  she  asked,  with  a  gesture 
towards  the  departing  Krool. 

"A  bit  o'  lip  to  Colonel  Stafford,  ma'am,"  answered  one 
of  the  guard.  "He's  got  a  tongue  like  a  tanner's  vat, 
that  goozer.  Wants  a  lump  o'  lead  in  'is  baskit  'e 
does." 

"  'E  done  a  good  turn  at  Hetmeyer's  Kopje,"  added  the 
Second.  "  If  it  hadn't  been  for  'im  the  S.  A.'s  would  have 
had  a  new  Colonel" — he  jerked  his  head  towards  the 
house,  from  which  came  the  murmur  of  men's  voices 
talking  earnestly. 

"Whatever  'e  done  it  for,  it  was  slim,  you  can  stake  a 
tidy  lot  on  that,  ma'am,"  interjected  the  First.  "He's 
the  bottom  o'  the  sink,  this  half-caste  Boojer  is." 

The  Second  continued:  "If  I  'ad  my  way  'e'd  be  put 
in  front  at  the  next  push-up,  just  where  the  mausers  of 
his  pals  would  get  'im.  'E's  done  a  lot  o'  bitin'  in  'is 
time — let  'im  bite  the  dust  now,  I  sez.  I'm  fair  sick 
of  treatin'  that  lot  as  if  they  was  square  fighters.  Why, 
'e'd  fire  on  a  nurse  or  an  ambulanche,  that  tyke  would." 

"There's  lots  like  him  in  yonder,"  urged  the  First,  as 
a  hand  was  jerked  forward  towards  the  hills,  "and  we're 
goin'  to  get  'em  this  time — goin'  to  get  'em  on  the  shovel. 
Their  schanses  and  their  kranzes  and  their  ant-bear  dug- 
outs ain't  goin'  to  help  them  this  mop-up.  We're  goin' 
to  get  the  tongue  in  the  hole  o'  the  buckle  this  time.  It's 
over  the  hills  and  far  away,  and  the  Come-in-Elizas  won't 
428 


AT    BRINKWORT'S    FARM 

stop  us.  When  the  howitzers  with  their  nice  little  balls 
of  lyddite  physic  get  opening  their  bouquets  to-morrow — " 

"Who  says  to-morrow?"  demanded  the  Second. 

"I  says  to-morrow.  I  know.  I  got  ears,  and  'im  that 
'as  ears  to  'ear  let  'im  'ear — that's  what  the  Scripture 
saith.  I  was  brought  up  on  the  off  side  of  a  vicarage. " 

He  laughed  eagerly  at  his  own  joke,  chuckling  till  his 
comrade  followed  up  with  a  sharp  challenge. 

"I  bet  you  never  heard  nothin'  but  your  own  blea tin's 
—not  about  wot  the  next  move  is,  and  w'en  it  is." 

The  First  made  quick  retort.  "Then  you  lose  your 
bet,  for  I  'card  Colonel  Byng  get  'is  orders  larst  night — • 
w'en  you  was  sleepin'  at  your  post,  Willy.  By  to-morrow 
this  time  you'll  see  the  whole  outfit  at  it.  You'll  see  the 
little  billows  of  white  rolling  over  the  hills  —  that's 
shrapnel.  You'll  hear  the  rippin',  zippin',  zimmin'  thing 
in  the  air  wot  makes  you  sick;  for  you  don't  know  who 
it's  goin'  to  'it.  That's  shells.  You'll  hear  a  thousand 
blankets  being  shook  —  that's  mausers  and  others. 
You'll  see  regiments  marching  out  o'  step,  an'  every  man 
on  his  own,  which  is  not  how  we  started  this  war,  not 
much.  And  where  there's  a  bit  o"  rock,  you  say,  'Ere's 
a  friend,  and  you  get  behind  it  like  a  man.  And  w'en 
there's  nothing  to  get  behind,  you  get  in  front,  and  take 
your  chances,  and  you  get  there — right  there,  over  the 
trenches,  over  the  bloomin'  Amalakites,  over  the  hills 
and  far  away,  where  they  want  the  relief  they're  goin'  to 
get,  or  I'm  a  pansy  blossom." 

"Well,  to-morrow  can't  come  quick  enough  for  me," 
answered  the  Second.  He  straightened  out  his  shoulders 
and  eyed  the  hills  in  front  of  him  with  a  calculating  air, 
as  though  he  were  planning  the  tactics  of  the  fight  to 
come. 

"We'll  all  be  in  it — even  you,  ma'am,"  insinuated  the 

First  to  Al'mah  with  a  friendly  nod.     "But  I'd  ruther 

'ave  my  job  nor  yours.     I've  done  a  bit  o'  nursin' — there 

was  Bob  Critchett  that  got  a  splinter  o'  shell  in  his  'ead, 

429 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

and  there  was  Sergeant  Hoyle  and  others.  But  it  gits 
me  where  I  squeak  that  kind  o'  thing  do." 

Suddenly  they  brought  their  rifles  to  the  salute,  as  a 
footstep  sounded  smartly  on  the  stoep.  It  was  Stafford 
coming  from  the  house. 

He  acknowledged  the  salute  mechanically.  His  eyes 
were  fastened  on  the  distance.  They  had  a  rapt,  shining 
look,  and  he  walked  like  one  in  a  pleasant  dream.  A 
moment  afterwards  he  mounted  his  horse  with  the  light- 
ness of  a  boy,  and  galloped  away. 

He  had  not  seen  Al'mah  as  he  passed. 

In  her  fingers  was  crushed  a  bunch  of  orange  blossoms. 
A  heavy  sigh  broke  from  her  lips.  She  turned  to  go 
within,  and,  as  she  did  so,  saw  Rudyard  Byng  looking 
from  the  doorway  towards  the  hospital  where  Jasmine 
was. 

"Will  she  come?"  Al'mah  asked  herself,  and  mechanical- 
ly she  wiped  the  stain  of  the  blossoms  from  her  fingers. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

SPRINGS  OF  HEALING 

DUSK  had  almost  come,  yet  Jasmine  had  not  arrived 
at  Brinkwort's  Farm,  the  urgency  of  Al'mah's  mes- 
sage notwithstanding.  As  things  stood,  it  was  a  mat- 
ter of  life  and  death;  and  to  Al'mah's  mind  humanity 
alone  should  have  sent  Jasmine  at  once  to  her  husband's 
side.  Something  of  her  old  prejudice  against  Jasmine  rose 
up  again.  Perhaps  behind  it  all  was  involuntary  envy  of 
an  invitation  to  happiness  so  freely  laid  at  Jasmine's  feet, 
but  withheld  from  herself  by  Fate.  Never  had  the 
chance  to  be  happy  or  the  obvious  inducement  to  be 
good  ever  been  hers.  She  herself  had  nothing,  and  Jas- 
mine still  had  a  chance  for  all  to  which  she  had  no 
right.  Her  heart  beat  harder  at  the  thought  of  it.  She 
was  of  those  who  get  their  happiness  first  in  making 
others  happy — as  she  would  have  done  with  Blantyre, 
if  she  had  had  a  chance;  as  even  she  tried  to  do  with  the 
man  whom  she  had  sent  to  his  account  with  the  firmness 
and  fury  of  an  ancient  Greek.  The  maternal,  the  pro- 
tective sense  was  big  in  her,  and  indirectly  it  had  gov- 
erned her  life.  It  had  sent  her  to  South  Africa — to 
protect  the  wretch  who  had  done  his  best  to  destroy  her; 
it  id  made  her  content  at  times  as  she  did  her 
nurse's  work  in  what  dreadful  circumstances !  It  was 
the  source  of  her  revolt  at  Jasmine's  conduct  and  char- 
acter. 

But  was  it  also  that,  far  beneath  her  criticism  of  Jas- 
mine, which  was,  after  all,  so  little  in  comparison  with  the 
new-found  affection  she  really  had  for  her,  there  lay  a  kin^ 
.43*. 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

ship,  a  sympathy,  a  soul's  rapprochement  with  Rudyard, 
which  might,  in  happier  circumstances,  have  become  a 
mating  such  as  the  world  knew  in  its  youth?  Was 
that  also  in  part  the  cause  of  her  anxiety  for  Rud- 
yard, and  of  her  sharp  disapproval  of  Jasmine?  Did 
she  want  to  see  Rudyard  happy,  no  matter  at  what  cost 
to  Jasmine  ?  Was  it  the  everlasting  feminine  in  her  which 
would  make  a  woman  sacrifice  herself  for  a  man,  if  need 
be,  in  order  that  he  might  be  happy?  Was  it  the  ancient 
tyrannical  soul  in  her  which  would  make  a  thousand 
women  sacrifice  themselves  for  the  man  she  herself  set 
above  all  others? 

But  she  was  of  those  who  do  not  know  what  they  are, 
or  what  they  think  and  feel,  till  some  explosion  forces  open 
the  doors  of  their  souls  and  they  look  upon  a  new  life  over 
a  heap  of  ruins. 

She  sat  in  the  gathering  dusk,  waiting,  while  hope  slow- 
ly waned.  Rudyard  also,  on  the  veranda,  paced  weakly, 
almost  stumblingly,  up  and  down,  his  face  also  turning 
towards  the  Stay  Awhile  Hospital.  At  length,  with  a 
heavy  sigh,  he  entered  the  house  and  sat  down  in  a  great 
arm-chair,  from  which  old  Brinkwort  the  Boer  had  laid 
down  the  law  for  his  people. 

Where  was  jasmine?  Why  did  she  not  hasten  to 
Brinkwort's  Farm? 

A  Staff  Officer  from  the  General  Commanding  had 
called  to  congratulate  Jasmine  on  her  recovery,  and  to 
give  fresh  instructions  which  would  link  her  work  at 
Durban  effectively  with  the  army  as  it  now  moved  on 
to  the  relief  of  the  town  beyond  the  hills.  ATmah's  note 
had  arrived  while  the  officer  was  with  Jasmine,  and  it  was 
held  back  until  he  left.  It  was  then  forgotten  by  the  at- 
tendant on  duty,  and  it  lay  for  three  hours  undelivered. 
Then  when  it  was  given  to  her,  no  mention  was  made  of 
the  delay. 

When  the  Staff  Officer  left  her,  he  had  said  to  himself 
432 


SPRINGS    OF    HEALING 

that  hers  was  one  of  the  most  alluring  and  fascinating 
faces  he  had  ever  seen;  and  he,  like  Stafford,  though  in 
another  sphere — that  of  the  Secret  Intelligence  Depart- 
ment— had  travelled  far  and  wide  in  the  world.  Per- 
fectly beautiful  he  did  not  call  her,  though  her  face  was 
as  near  that  rarity  as  any  he  had  known.  He  would 
only  have  called  a  woman  beautiful  who  was  tall,  and  she 
was  almost  petite;  but  that  was  because  he  himself  was 
over-tall,  and  her  smallness  seemed  to  be  properly  classed 
with  those  who  were  pretty,  not  the  handsome  or  the  beau- 
tiful. But  there  was  something  in  her  face  that  haunted 
him — a  wistful,  appealing  delicacy,  which  yet  was  asso- 
ciated with  an  instant  readiness  of  intellect,  with  a  per- 
spicuous judgment  and  a  gift  of  organization.  And  she 
had  eyes  of  blue  which  were  "meant  to  drown  those 
who  hadn't  life-belts,"  as  he  said. 

In  one  way  or  another  he  put  all  this  to  his  fellow- 
officers,  and  said  that  the  existence  of  two  such  patriots 
as  Byng  and  Jasmine  in  one  family  was  unusual. 

"Pretty  fairly  self-possessed,  I  should  say,"  said  Rigby, 
the  youngest  officer  present  at  mess.  "Her  husband  un- 
der repair  at  Brinkwort's  Farm,  in  the  care  of  the  blue- 
ribbon  nurse  of  the  army,  who  makes  a  fellow  well  if  he 
looks  at  her,  and  she  studying  organization  at  the  Stay 
Awhile  with  a  staff-officer." 

The  reply  of  the  Staff  Officer  was  quick  and  cutting 
enough  for  any  officers'  mess. 

"I  see  by  the  latest  papers  from  England,  that  Balfour 
says  we'll  muddle  through  this  war  somehow,"  he  said. 
"He  must  have  known  you,  Rigby.  With  the  courage 
of  the  damned  you  carry  a  fearsome  lot  of  impedimenta, 
and  you  muddle  quite  adequately.  The  lady  you  have 
traduced  has  herself  been  seriously  ill,  and  that  is  why 
she  is  not  at  Brinkwort's  Farm.  What  a  malicious  mind 
you've  got!  Byng  would  think  so." 

"If  Rigby  had  been  in  your  place  to-day,"  interposed 
a  gruff  major,  "the  lady  would  surely  have  had  a  relapse. 
433 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

Convalescence  is  no  time  for  teaching  the  rudiments  of 
human  intercourse." 

Pale  and  angry,  Rigby,  who  was  half  Scotch  and  cor- 
respondingly self-satisfied,  rejoined  stubbornly:  "I  know 
what  I  know.  They  haven't  met  since  she  came  up  from 
Durban.  Sandlip  told  me  that — " 

The  Staff  Officer  broke  the  sentence.  "What  Sandlip 
told  you  is  what  Nancy  would  tell  Polly  and  Polly  would 
tell  the  cook — and  then  Rigby  would  know.  But  state- 
ment number  one  is  an  Ananiasism,  for  Byng  saw  his 
wife  at  the  hospital  the  night  before  Hetmeyer's  Kopje. 
I  can't  tell  what  they  said,  though,  nor  what  was  the 
colour  of  the  lady's  peignoir,  for  I  am  neither  Nancy  nor 
Polly  nor  the  cook — nor  Rigby." 

With  a  maddened  gesture  Rigby  got  to  his  feet,  but  a 
man  at  his  side  pulled  him  down.  "Sit  still,  Baby  Bunt- 
ing, or  you'll  not  get  over  the  hills  to-morrow,"  he  said, 
and  he  offered  Rigby  a  cigar  from  Rigby 's  own  cigar-case, 
cutting  off  the  end,  handing  it  to  him  and  lighting  a  match. 

"Gun  out  of  action:  record  the  error  of  the  day," 
piped  the  thin  precise  voice  of  the  Colonel  from  the  head 
of  the  table. 

A  chorus  of  quiet  laughter  met  the  Colonel's  joke, 
founded  on  the  technical  fact  that  the  variation  in  the 
firing  of  a  gun,  due  to  any  number  of  causes,  though  ap- 
parently firing  under  the  same  conditions,  is  called  official- 
ly "the  error  of  the  day"  in  Admiralty  reports. 

"Here  the  incident  closed,"  as  the  newspapers  say,  but 
Rigby  the  tactless  and  the  petty  had  shown  that  there 
was  rumour  concerning  the  relations  of  Byng  and  his 
wife,  which  Jasmine,  at  least,  imagined  did  not  exist. 

When  Jasmine  read  the  note  Al'mah  had  sent  her,  a 
flush  stole  slowly  over  her  face,  and  then  faded,  leaving  a 
whiteness,  behind  which  was  the  emanation,  not  of  fear, 
but  of  agitation  and  of  shock. 

ft  meant  that  Rudyard  was  dying,  and  that  she  must 
434 


SPRINGS    OF    HEALING 

go  to  him.  That  she  must  go  to  him?  Was  that  the 
thought  in  her  mind — that  she  must  go  to  him? 

//  she  wished  to  see  him  again  before  he  went!  That 
midnight,  when  he  was  on  his  way  to  Hetmeyer's  Kopje, 
he  had  flung  from  her  room  into  the  night,  and  ridden 
away  angrily  on  his  grey  horse,  not  hearing  her  voice 
faintly  calling  after  him.  Now,  did  she  want  to  see  him 
— the  last  time  before  he  rode  away  again  forever,  on  that 
white  horse  called  Death?  A  shudder  passed  through 
her. 

"Ruddy!  Poor  Ruddy!"  she  said,  and  she  did  not 
remember  that  those  were  the  pitying,  fateful  words 
she  used  on  the  day  when  Ian  Stafford  dined  with  her 
alone  after  Rudyard  made  his  bitter  protest  against 
the  life  they  lived.  "We  have  everything — everything," 
he  had  said,  "and  yet — " 

Now,  however,  there  was  an  anguished  sob  in  her 
voice.  With  the  thought  of  seeing  him,  her  fingers  trem- 
blingly sought  the  fine-spun  strands  of  hair  which  ever 
lay  a  little  loose  from  the  wonder  of  its  great  coiled 
abundance,  and  then  felt  her  throat,  as  though  to  ad- 
just the  simple  linen  collar  she  wore,  making  exquisite 
contrast  to  the  soft  simplicity  of  her  dark-blue  gown. 

She  found  the  attendant  who  had  given  her  the  letter, 
and  asked  if  the  messenger  was  waiting,  and  was  only  then 
informed  that  he  had  been  gone  three  hours  or  more. 

Three  hours  or  more !  It  might  be  that  Rudyard  was 
gone  forever  without  hearing  what  she  had  to  say,  or 
knowing  whether  she  desired  reconciliation  and  peace. 

She  at  once  gave  orders  for  a  cape-cart  to  take  her  over 
to  Brinkwort's  Farm.  The  attendant  respectfully  said 
that  he  must  have  orders.  She  hastened  to  the  officer  in 
charge  of  the  hospital,  and  explained.  His  sympathy 
translated  itself  into  instant  action.  Fortunately  there 
was  a  cart  at  the  door.  In  a  moment  she  was  ready,  and 
the  cart  sped  away  into  the  night  across  the  veld. 

She  had  noticed  nothing  as  she  mounted  the  cart — 
435 


THE    JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

neither  the  driver  nor  the  horses;  but,  as  they  hurried 
on,  she  was  roused  by  a  familiar  voice  saying,  "'E  done 
it  all  right  at  Hetmeyer's  Kopje — done  it  brown.  First 
Wortmann's  Drift,  and  then  Hetmeyer's  Kopje,  and  he'll 
be  over  the  hills  and  through  the  Boers  and  into  Lord- 
kop  with  the  rest  of  the  hold-me-backs." 

She  recognized  him — the  first  person  who  had  spoken 
to  her  of  her  husband  on  her  arrival,  the  cheerful  Cor- 
poral Shorter,  who  had  told  her  of  Wortmann's  Drift 
and  the  saving  of  "Old  Gunter." 

She  touched  his  arm  gently.  "I  am  glad  it  is  you,"  she 
said  in  a  low  tone. 

"Not  so  glad  as  I  am,"  he  answered.  "It's  a  purple 
shame  that  you  should  ha'  been  took  sick  when  he  was 
mowed  down,  and  that  some  one  else  should  be  healin'  'is 
gapin'  wounds  besides  'is  lawful  wife,  and  'er  a  rifle-shot 
away!  It's  a  fair  shame,  that's  wot  it  is.  But  all's  well 
as  ends  well,  and  you're  together  at  the  finish." 

She  shrank  from  his  last  words.  Her  heart  seemed  to 
contract;  it  hurt  her  as  though  it  was  being  crushed  in  a 
vise.  She  was  used  to  that  pain  now.  She  had  felt  it — 
ah,  how  many  times  since  the  night  she  found  Adrian 
Fellowes'  white  rose  on  her  pillow,  laid  there  by  the  man 
she  had  sworn  at  the  altar  to  love,  honor,  and  obey !  Her 
head  drooped.  "At  the  finish" — how  strange  and  new 
and  terrible  it  was !  The  world  stood  still  for  her. 

"You'll  go  together  to  Lordkop,  I  expeck,"  she  heard 
her  companion's  voice  say,  and  at  first  she  did  not  realize 
its  meaning;  then  slowly  it  came  to  her.  "At  the  finish" 
in  his  words  meant  the  raising  of  the  siege  of  Lordkop, 
it  meant  rescue,  victory,  restoration.  He  had  not  said 
that  Rudyard  was  dead,  that  the  Book  of  Rudyard  and 
Jasmine  was  closed  forever.  Her  mind  was  in  chaos,  her 
senses  in  confusion.  She  seemed  like  one  in  a  vague, 
shifting,  agonizing  dream. 

She  was  unconscious  of  what  her  friendly  Corporal  was 
saying.  She  only  answered  him  mechanically  now  and 
436 


SPRINGS    OF    HEALING 

then;  and  he,  seeing  that  she  was  distraught,  talked  on 
in  a  comforting  kind  of  way,  telling  her  anecdotes  of  Rud- 
yard,  as  they  were  told  in  that  part  of  the  army  to  which 
he  belonged. 

What  was  she  going  to  do  when  she  arrived?  What 
could  she  do  if  Rudyard  was  dead?  If  Rudyard  was  still 
alive,  she  would  make  him  understand  that  she  was  not 
the  Jasmine  of  the  days  "before  the  flood" — before  that 
storm  came  which  uprooted  all  that  ever  was  in  her  life 
except  the  old,  often  anguished,  longing  to  be  good,  and 
the  power  which  swept  her  into  bye  and  forbidden  paths. 
If  he  was  gone,  deaf  to  her  voice  and  to  any  mortal  sound, 
then — there  rushed  into  her  vision  the  figure  of  Ian  Staf- 
ford, but  she  put  that  from  her  with  a  trembling  deter- 
mination. That  was  done  forever.  She  was  as  sure  of  it 
as  she  was  sure  of  anything  in  the  world.  Ian  had  not 
forgiven  her,  would  never  forgive  her.  He  despised  her, 
rejected  her,  abhorred  her.  Ian  had  saved  her  from  the 
result  of  Rudyard's  rash  retaliation  and  fury,  and  had 
then  repulsed  her,  bidden  her  stand  off  from  him  with  a 
magnanimity  and  a  chivalry  which  had  humiliated  her. 
He  had  protected  her  from  the  shame  of  an  open  tragedy, 
and  then  had  shut  the  door  in  her  face.  Rudyard,  with 
the  same  evidence  as  Ian  held, — the  same  letter  as  proof 
— he,  whatever  he  believed  or  thought,  he  had  forgiven 
her.  Only  a  few  nights  ago,  that  night  before  the  fight 
at  Hetmeyer's  Kopje,  he  had  opened  his  arms  to  her  and 
called  her  his  wife.  In  Rudyard  was  some  great  good 
thing,  something  which  could  not  die,  which  must  live 
on.  She  sat  up  straight  in  the  seat  of  the  cart,  her  hands 
clinched. 

No,  no,  no,  Rudyard  was  not  dead,  and  he  should  not 
die.  It  mattered  not  what  Al'mah  had  written;  she 
must  have  her  chance  to  prove  herself ;  his  big  soul  must 
have  its  chance  to  run  a  long  course,  must  not  be  cut  off 
at  the  moment  when  so  much  had  been  done ;  when  there 
was  so  much  to  do.  Ian  should  see  that  she  was  not 
437 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"just  a  little  burst  of  eloquence,"  as  he  had  called  her, 
not  just  a  strumpet,  as  he  thought  her;  but  a  woman  now, 
beyond  eloquence,  far  distant  from  the  poppy-fields  of 
pleasure.  She  was  young  enough  for  it  to  be  a  virtue  in 
her  to  avoid  the  poppy-fields.  She  was  not  twenty-six 
years  of  age,  and  to  have  learned  the  truth  at  twenty-six, 
and  still  not  to  have  been  wholly  destroyed  by  the  lies  of 
life,  was  something  which  might  be  turned  to  good  account. 

She  was  sharply  roused,  almost  shocked  out  of  her  dis- 
traction. Bright  lights  appeared  suddenly  in  front  of 
her,  and  she  heard  the  voice  of  her  Corporal  saying: 
"We're  here,  ma'am,  where  old  Brinkwort  built  a  hos- 
pital for  one,  and  that  one's  yours,  Mrs.  Byng." 

He  clucked  to  his  horses  and  they  slackened.  All  at 
once  the  lights  seemed  to  grow  larger,  and  from  the  gar- 
den of  Brinkwort's  house  came  the  sharp  voice  of  a 
soldier  saying: 

"Halt!    Who  goes  there?" 

"A  friend,"  was  the  Corporal's  reply. 

"Advance,  friend,  and  give  the  countersign,"  was 
brusquely  returned. 

A  moment  afterwards  Jasmine  was  in  the  sweet- 
smelling  garden,  and  the  lights  of  the  house  were  flaring 
out  upon  her. 

She  heard  at  the  same  time  the  voices  of  the  sentry 
and  of  Corporal  Shorter  in  low  tones  of  badinage,  and  she 
frowned.  It  was  cruel  that  at  the  door  of  the  dead  or 
the  dying  there  should  be  such  levity. 

All  at  once  a  figure  came  between  her  and  the  light. 
Instinctively  she  knew  it  was  Al'mah. 

"Al'mah!  Al'mah!"  she  said  painfully,  and  in  a  voice 
scarce  above  a  whisper. 

The  figure  of  the  singing-woman  bent  over  her  pro- 
tectingly,  as  it  might  almost  seem,  and  her  hands  were 
caught  in  a  warm  clasp. 

"Am  I  in  time?"  Jasmine  asked,  and  the  words  came 
from  her  in  gasps. 

438 


SPRINGS    OF    HEALING 

Al'mah  had  no  repentance  for  her  deception.  She  saw 
an  agitation  which  seemed  to  her  deeper  and  more  real 
than  any  emotion  ever  shown  by  Jasmine,  not  excepting 
the  tragical  night  at  the  Glencader  Mine  and  the  morning 
of  the  first  meeting  at  the  Stay  Awhile  Hospital.  The 
butterfly  had  become  a  thrush  that  sang  with  a  heart  in 
its  throat. 

She  gathered  Jasmine's  eyes  to  her  own.  It  seemed 
as  though  she  never  would  answer.  To  herself  she  even 
said,  why  should  she  hurry,  since  all  was  well,  since  she  had 
brought  the  two  together  living,  who  had  been  dead  to 
each  other  these  months  past,  and,  more  than  all,  had  been 
of  the  angry  dead?  A  little  more  pain  and  regret  could 
do  no  harm,  but  only  good.  Besides,  now  that  she  was 
face  to  face  with  the  result  of  her  own  deception,  she  had 
a  sudden  fear  that  it  might  go  wrong.  She  had  no  remorse 
for  the  act,  but  only  a  faint  apprehension  of  the  possible 
consequences.  Suppose  that  in  the  shock  of  discovery 
Jasmine  should  throw  everything  to  the  winds,  and  lose 
herself  in  arrant  egotism  once  more!  Suppose — no,  she 
would  suppose  nothing.  She  must  believe  that  all  she  had 
done  was  for  the  best. 

She  felt  how  cold  were  the  small  delicate  hands  in  her 
own  strong  warm  fingers,  she  saw  the  frightened  appeal 
of  the  exquisite  haunting  eyes,  and  all  at  once  realized 
the  cause  of  that  agitation — the  fear  that  death  had  come 
without  understanding,  that  the  door  had  been  forever 
shut  against  the  answering  voices. 

"You  are  in  time,"  she  said  gently,  encouragingly,  and 
she  tightened  the  grasp  of  her  hands. 

As  the  volts  of  an  electric  shock  quivering  through  a 
body  are  suddenly  withdrawn,  and  the  rigidity  becomes 
a  ghastly  inertness,  so  Jasmine's  hands,  and  all  her  body, 
seemed  released.  She  felt  as  though  she  must  fall,  but 
she  reasserted  her  strength,  and  slowly  regained  her 
balance,  withdrawing  her  hands  from  those  of  Al'mah. 

"He  is  alive — he  is  alive — he  is  alive,"  she  kept  repeat' 
29  439 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

ing  to  herself  like  one  in  a  dream.  Then  she  added  hastily, 
with  an  effort  to  bear  herself  with  courage:  "Where  is 
he?  Take  me." 

Al'mah  motioned,  and  in  a  moment  they  were  inside 
the  house.  A  sense  of  something  good  and  comforting 
came  over  Jasmine.  Here  was  an  old,  old  room  furnished 
in  heavy  and  simple  Dutch  style,  just  as  old  Elias  Brink- 
wort  had  left  it.  It  had  the  grave  and  heavy  hospitable- 
ness  of  a  picture  of  Teniers  or  Jan  Steen.  It  had  the 
sense  of  home,  the  welcome  of  the  cradle  and  the 
patriarch's  chair.  These  were  both  here  as  they  were 
when  Elias  Brinkwort  and  his  people  went  out  to  join 
the  Boer  army  in  the  hills,  knowing  that  the  verdonide 
Rooinek  would  not  loot  his  house  or  ravage  his  be- 
longings. 

To  Jasmine's  eyes,  it  brought  a  new  strange  sense,  as 
though  all  at  once  doors  had  been  opened  up  to  new  sensa- 
tions of  life.  Almost  mechanically,  yet  with  a  curious 
vividness  and  permanency  of  vision,  her  eyes  drifted  from 
the  patriarch's  chair  to  the  cradle  in  the  corner;  and  that 
picture  would  remain  with  her  till  she  could  see  no  more 
at  all.  Unbidden  and  unconscious  there  came  upon  her 
lips  a  faint  smile,  and  then  a  door  in  front  of  her  was 
opened,  and  she  was  inside  another  room — not  a  bedroom 
as  she  had  expected,  but  a  room  where  the  Dutch  sim- 
plicity and  homely  sincerity  had  been  invaded  by  some- 
thing English  and  military.  This  she  felt  before  her 
eyes  fell  on  a  man  standing  beside  a  table,  fully  dressed. 
Though  shaken  and  worn,  it  was  a  figure  which  had  no 
affinity  with  death. 

As  she  started  back  Al'mah  closed  the  door  behind  her, 
and  she  found  herself  facing  Rudyard,  looking  into  his 
eyes. 

Al'mah  had  miscalculated.  She  did  not  realize  Jas- 
mine as  she  really  was — like  one  in  a  darkened  room  who 
leans  out  to  the  light  and  sun.  The  old  life,  the  old  im- 
petuous egoism,  the  long  years  of  self  were  not  yet  gone 
440 


SPRINGS    OF    HEALING 

from  a  character  composite  of  impulse,  vanity  and 
intensity.  This  had  been  too  daring  an  experiment 
with  one  of  her  nature,  which  had  within  the  last  few 
months  become  as  strangely,  insistently,  even  fanatically 
honest,  as  it  had  been  elusive  in  the  past.  In  spite  of  a 
tremulous  effort  to  govern  herself  and  see  the  situation 
as  it  really  was — an  effort  of  one  who  desired  her  good  to 
bring  her  and  Rudyard  together,  the  ruse  itself  became 
magnified  to  monstrous  proportions,  and  her  spirit  sud- 
denly revolted.  She  felt  that  she  had  been  inveigled; 
that  what  should  have  been  her  own  voluntary  act  of 
expiation  and  submission,  had  been  forced  upon  her;  and 
pride,  ever  her  most  secret  enemy,  took  possession  of  her. 

"I  have  been  tricked,"  she  said,  with  eyes  aflame  and 
her  body  trembling.  "You  have  trapped  me  here!" 
There  was  scorn  and  indignation  in  her  voice. 

He  did  not  move,  but  his  eyes  were  intent  upon  hers  and 
persistently  held  them.  He  had  been  near  to  death,  and 
his  vision  had  been  more  fully  cleared  than  hers.  He 
knew  that  this  was  the  end  of  all  or  the  beginning  of  all 
things  for  them  both;  and  though  anger  suddenly  leaped 
at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  he  kept  it  in  restraint,  the 
primitive  thing  of  which  he  had  had  enough. 

"I  did  not  trick  you,  Jasmine,"  he  answered,  in  a  low 
voice.  "The  letter  was  sent  without  my  knowledge  or 
permission.  Al'mah  thought  she  was  doing  us  both  a  good 
turn.  I  never  deceived  you — never.  I  should  not  have 
sent  for  you  in  any  case.  I  heard  you  were  ill  and  I  tried 
to  get  up  and  go  to  you ;  but  it  was  not  possible.  Besides, 
they  would  not  let  me.  I  wanted  to  go  to  you  again, 
because,  somehow,  I  felt  that  midnight  meeting  in  the 
hospital  was  a  mistake;  that  it  ended  as  you  would  not 
really  wish  it  to  end." 

Again,  with  wonderful  intuition  for  a  man  who  knew 

so  little  of  women,  as  he  thought,  he  had  said  the  one 

thing  which  could  have  cooled  the  anger  that  drowned 

the  overwhelming  gratitude  she  felt  at  his  being  alive — 

441 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

overwhelming,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  her  old  mad  tem- 
perament had  flooded  it  for  the  moment. 

He  would  have  gone  to  her — that  was  what  he  had  said. 
In  spite  of  her  conduct  that  midnight,  when  he  was  on  his 
way  to  Hetmeyer's  Kopje,  he  would  have  come  again  to 
her!  How,  indeed,  he  must  have  loved  her;  or  how 
magnanimous,  how  impossibly  magnanimous,  he  was ! 

How  thin  and  worn  he  was,  and  how  large  the  eyes 
were  in  the  face  grown  hollow  with  suffering!  There 
were  liberal  streaks  of  grey  also  at  his  temples,  and 
she  noted  there  was  one  strand  all  white  just  in  the 
centre  of  his  thick  hair.  A  swift  revulsion  of  feeling 
in  her  making  for  peace  was,  however,  sharply  arrested 
by  the  look  in  his  eyes.  It  had  all  the  sombreness  of  re- 
proach— of  immitigable  reproach.  Could  she  face  that 
look  now  and  through  the  years  to  come  ?  It  were  easier 
to  live  alone  to  the  end  with  her  own  remorse,  drinking 
the  cup  that  would  not  empty,  on  and  on,  than  to  live 
with  that  look  in  his  eyes. 

She  turned  her  head  away  from  him.  Her  glance  sud- 
denly caught  a  sjambok  lying  along  two  nails  on  the  wall. 
His  eyes  followed  hers,  and  in  the  minds  of  both  was  the 
scene  when  Rudyard  drove  Krool  into  the  street  under 
just  such  a  whip  of  rhinoceros-hide. 

Something  of  the  old  spirit  worked  in  her  in  spite  of  all. 
Idiosyncrasy  may  not  be  cauterized,  temperament  must 
assert  itself,  or  the  personality  dies.  Was  he  to  be  her 
master — was  that  the  end  of  it  all?  She  had  placed  her- 
self so  completely  in  his  power  by  her  wilful  waywardness 
and  errors.  Free  from  blame,  she  would  have  been  ruler 
over  him;  now  she  must  be  his  slave! 

"Why  did  you  not  use  it  on  me?"  she  asked,  in  a  voice 
almost  like  a  cry,  though  it  had  a  ring  of  bitter  irony. 
"Why  don't  you  use  it  now?  Don't  you  want  to?" 

"You  were  always  so  small  and  beautiful,"  he  an- 
swered, slowly.  "A  twenty-stamp  mill  to  crush  a  bee!" 

Again  resentment  rose  in  her,  despite  the  far-off  sense 
442 


SPRINGS    OF    HEALING 

of  joy  she  had  in  hearing  him  play  with  words.  She  could 
forgive  almost  anything  for  that  —  and  yet  she  was 
real  and  had  not  merely  the  dilettante  soul.  But  why 
should  he  talk  as  though  she  was  a  fly  and  he  an  eagle? 
Yet  there  was  admiration  in  his  eyes  and  in  his  words. 
She  was  angry  with  herself — and  with  him.  She  was  in 
chaos  again. 

"You  treat  me  like  a  child,  you  condescend — " 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake — for  God's  sake!"  he  interrupted, 
with  a  sudden  storm  in  his  face ;  but  suddenly,  as  though 
by  a  great  mastery  of  the  will,  he  conquered  himself,  and 
his  face  cleared. 

"You  must  sit  down,  Jasmine,"  he  said,  hurriedly. 
"You  look  tired.  You  haven't  got  over  your  illness  yet." 

He  hastily  stepped  aside  to  get  her  a  chair,  but,  as  he 
took  hold  of  it,  he  stumbled  and  swayed  in  weakness, 
bprn  of  an  excitement  far  greater  than  her  own;  for  he 
was  thinking  of  the  happiness  of  two  people,  not  of  the 
happiness  of  one;  and  he  realized  how  critical  was  this 
hour.  He  had  a  grasp  of  the  bigger  things,  and  his  talk 
with  Stafford  of  a  few  hours  ago  was  in  his  mind — a  talk 
which,  in  its  brevity,  still  had  had  the  limitlessness  of 
revelation.  He  had  made  a  promise  to  one  of  the  best 
friends  that  man — or  woman — ever  had,  as  he  thought; 
and  he  would  keep  it.  So  he  said  to  himself.  Stafford 
understood  Jasmine,  and  Stafford  had  insisted  that  he  be 
not  deceived  by  some  revolt  on  the  part  of  Jasmine,  which 
would  be  the  outcome  of  her  own  humiliation,  of  her 
own  anger  with  herself  for  all  the  trouble  she  had  caused. 
So  he  said  to  himself. 

As  he  staggered  with  the  chair  she  impulsively  ran  to 
aid  him. 

"Rudyard,"  she  exclaimed,  with  concern,  "you  must 
not  do  that.  You  have  not  the  strength.  It  is  silly  of 
you  to  be  up  at  all.  I  wonder  at  Al'mah  and  the  doctor !" 

She  pushed  him  to  a  big  arm-chair  beside  the  table 
and  gently  pressed  him  down  into  the  seat.  He  was 
443 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

very  weak,  and  his  hand  trembled  on  the  chair-arm.  She 
reached  out,  as  if  to  take  it;  but,  as  though  the  act  was 
too  forward,  her  fingers  slipped  to  his  wrist  instead,  and 
she  felt  his  pulse  with  the  gravity  of  a  doctor. 

Despite  his  weakness  a  look  of  laughter  crept  into  his 
eyes  and  stayed  there.  He  had  read  the  little  incident 
truly.  Presently,  seeing  the  whiteness  of  his  face  but 
not  the  look  in  his  eyes,  she  turned  to  the  table,  and  pour- 
ing out  a  glass  of  water  from  a  pitcher  there,  held  it  to 
his  lips. 

"Here,  Rudyard,"  she  said,  soothingly,  "drink  this. 
You  are  faint.  You  shouldn't  have  got  up  simply  be- 
cause I  was  coming." 

As  he  leaned  back  to  drink  from  the  glass  she  caught 
the  gentle  humour  of  his  look,  begotten  of  the  incident  of 
a  moment  before. 

There  was  no  reproach  in  the  strong,  clear  eyes  of  blue 
which  even  wounds  and  illness  had  not  faded — only  humour, 
only  a  hovering  joy,  only  a  good-fellowship,  and  the  look 
of  home.  She  suddenly  thought  of  the  room  from  which 
she  had  just  come,  and  it  seemed,  not  fantastically  to  her, 
that  the  look  in  his  eyes  belonged  to  the  other  room  where 
were  the  patriarch's  chair  and  the  baby's  cradle.  There 
was  no  offending  magnanimity,  no  lofty  compassion  in 
his  blameless  eyes,  but  a  human  something  which  took  no 
account  of  the  years  that  the  locust  had  eaten,  the  old 
mad,  bad  years,  the  wrong  and  the  shame  of  them.  There 
was  only  the  look  she  had  seen  the  day  he  first  visited  her 
in  her  own  home,  when  he  had  played  with  words  she  had 
used  in  the  way  she  adored,  and  would  adore  till  she  died; 
when  he  had  said,  in  reply  to  her  remark  that  he  would 
turn  her  head,  that  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference  to 
his  point  of  view  if  she  did  turn  her  head!  Suddenly 
it  was  all  as  if  that  day  had  come  back,  although  his 
then  giant  physical  strength  had  gone;  although  he 
had  been  mangled  in  the  power-house  of  which  they 
had  spoken  that  day.  Come  to  think  of  it,  she  too  had 
444 


SPRINGS    OF    HEALING 

been  working  in  the  "  power-house  "  and  had  been  mangled 
also;  for  she  was  but  a  thread  of  what  she  was  then,  but 
a  wisp  of  golden  straw  to  the  sheaf  of  the  then  young 
golden  wheat. 

All  at  once,  in  answer  to  the  humour  in  his  eyes,  to  the 
playful  bright  look,  the  tragedy  and  the  passion  which  had 
flown  out  from  her  old  self  like  the  flame  that  flares  out 
of  an  opened  furnace-door,  sank  back  again,  the  door 
closed,  and  all  her  senses  were  cooled  as  by  a  gentle 
wind. 

Her  eyes  met  his,  and  the  invitation  in  them  was  like 
the  call  of  the  thirsty  harvester  in  the  sunburnt  field. 
With  an  abandon,  as  startling  as  it  was  real  and  true  to  her 
nature,  she  sank  down  to  the  floor  and  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands  at  his  feet.  She  sobbed  deeply,  softly. 

With  an  exclamation  of  gladness  and  welcome  he  bent 
over  her  and  drew  her  close  to  him,  and  his  hands  soothed 
her  trembling  shoulders. 

"Peace  is  the  best  thing  of  all,  Jasmine,"  he  whispered. 
"  Peace." 

They  were  the  last  words  that  Ian  had  addressed 
to  her.  It  did  not  make  her  shrink  now  that  both  had 
said  to  her  the  same  thing,  for  both  knew  her,  each  in  his 
own  way,  better  than  she  had  ever  known  herself;  and 
each  had  taught  her  in  his  own  way,  but  by  what  different 
means ! 

All  at  once,  with  a  start,  she  caught  Rudyard's  arm 
with  a  little  spasmodic  grasp. 

"I  did  not  kill  Adrian  Fellowes,"  she  said,  like  a  child 
eager  to  be  absolved  from  a  false  imputation.  She  looked 
up  at  him  simply,  bravely. 

"Neither  did  I,"  he  answered  gravely,  and  the  look  in 
his  eyes  did  not  change.     She  noted  that. 
"I  know.     It  was — " 
She  paused.     What  right  had  she  to  tell! 
"Yes,  we  both  know  who  did  it,"  he  added.     "Al'mah 
told  me." 

445 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

She  hid  her  head  in  her  hands  again,  while  he  hung 
over  her  wisely  waiting  and  watching. 

Presently  she  raised  her  head,  but  her  swimming  eyes 
did  not  seek  his.  They  did  not  get  so  high.  After  one 
swift  glance  towards  his  own,  they  dropped  to  where  his 
heart  might  be,  and  her  voice  trembled  as  she  said: 

"Long  ago  Alice  Tynemouth  said  I  ought  to  marry  a 
man  who  would  master  me. ,  She  said  I  needed  a  heavy 
hand  over  me — and  the  shackles  on  my  wrists." 

She  had  forgotten  that  these  phrases  were  her  own; 
that  she  had  used  them  concerning  herself  the  night  be- 
fore the  tragedy. 

"I  think  she  was  right,"  she  added.  "I  had  never 
been  mastered,  and  I  was  all  childish  wilfulness  and  vanity. 
I  was  never  worth  while.  You  took  me  too  seriously, 
and  vanity  did  the  rest." 

"You  always  had  genius,"  he  urged,  gently,  "  and  you 
were  so  beautiful." 

She  shook  her  head  mournfully.  "I  was  only  an  imi- 
tation always — only  a  dresden-china  imitation  of  the  real 
thing  I  might  have  been,  if  I  had  been  taken  right  in 
time.  I  got  wrong  so  early.  Everything  I  said  or  did 
was  mostly  imitation.  It  was  made  up  of  other  people's 
acts  and  words.  I  could  never  forget  anything  I'd  ever 
heard ;  it  drowned  any  real  thing  in  me.  I  never  emerged 
— never  was  myself." 

"You  were  a  genius,"  he  repeated  again.  "That's 
what  genius  does.  It  takes  all  that  ever  was  and  makes 
it  new." 

She  made  a  quick  spasmodic  protest  of  her  hand.  She 
could  not  bear  to  have  him  praise  her.  She  wanted  to 
tell  him  all  that  had  ever  been,  all  that  she  ought  to  be 
sorry  for,  was  sorry  for  now  almost  beyond  endurance. 
She  wanted  to  strip  her  soul  bare  before  him;  but  she 
caught  the  look  of  home  in  his  eyes,  she  was  at  his  knees 
at  peace,  and  what  he  thought  of  her  meant  so  much  just 
now — in  this  one  hour,  for  this  one  hour.  She  had  had 
446 


SPRINGS    OF    HEALING 

such  hard  travelling,  and  here  was  a  rest-place  on  the 
road. 

He  saw  that  her  soul  was  up  in  battle  again,  but  he 
took  her  arms,  and  held  them  gently,  controlling  her 
agitation.  Presently,  with  a  great  sigh,  her  forehead 
drooped  upon  his  hands.  They  were  in  a  vast  theatre  of 
war,  and  they  were  part  of  it ;  but  for  the  moment  sheer 
waste  of  spirit  and  weariness  of  soul  made  peace  in  a  tur- 
bulent heart. 

"It's  her  real  self — at  last,"  he  kept  saying  to  himself. 
"She  had  to  have  her  chance,  and  she  has  got  it." 

Outside  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  veranda,  Al'mah  was 
in  reverie.  She  knew  from  the  silence  within  that  all 
was  well.  The  deep  peace  of  the  night,  the  thing  that  was 
happening  in  the  house,  gave  her  a  moment's  surcease 
from  her  own  problem,  her  own  arid  loneliness.  Her  mind 
went  back  to  the  night  when  she  had  first  sung  "  Manassa  " 
at  Co  vent  Garden.  The  music  shimmered  in  her  brain. 
She  essayed  to  hum  some  phrases  of  the  opera  which  she 
had  always  loved,  but  her  voice  had  no  resonance  or  vibra- 
tion. It  trailed  away  into  a  whisper. 

"  I  can't  sing  any  more.  What  shall  I  do  when  the  war 
ends?  Or  is  it  that  I  am  to  end  here  with  the  war?"  she 
whispered  to  herself.  .  .  .  Again  reverie  deepened.  Her 
mind  delivered  itself  up  to  an  obsession.  "No,  I  am  not 
sorry  I  killed  him,"  she  said  firmly  after  a  long  time. 
"If  a  price  must  be  paid,  I  will  pay  it." 

Buried  in  her  thoughts,  she  was  scarcely  conscious  of 
voices  near  by.  At  last  they  became  insistent  to  her  ears. 
They  were  the  voices  of  sentries  off  duty — the  two  who 
had  talked  to  her  earlier  in  the  evening,  after  Ian  Stafford 
had  left. 

"This  ain't  half  bad,  this  night  ain't,"  said  one. 
"There's  a  lot  o'  space  in  a  night  out  here." 

"I'd  like  to  be  'longside  o'  some  one  I  know  out  by 
'Ampstead  'Eath,"  rejoined  the  other. 
447 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

"I  got  a  girl  in  Camden  Town,"  said  the  First  vic- 
toriously. 

"  I  got  kids — somewheres,  I  expect,"  rejoined  the  Second 
with  a  flourish  of  pride  and  self-assertion. 

"Oh,  a  donah's  enough  for  me!"  returned  the  First. 

"You'll  come  to  the  other  when  you  don't  look  for  it 
neither,"  declared  his  friend  in  a  voice  of  fatality. 

"You  ain't  the  only  fool  in  the  world,  mate,  of  course. 
But  'struth,  I  like  this  business  better.  You've  got  a 
good  taste  in  your  mouth  in  the  morning  'ere." 

"Well,  I'll  meet  you  on  'Ampstead  'Eath  when  the  war 
is  over,  son,"  challenged  the  Second. 

"I  ain't  'opin'  and  I  ain't  prophesyin'  none  this  heat," 
was  the  quiet  reply.  "We've  got  a  bit  o'  hell  in  front  of 
us  yet.  I'll  talk  to  you  when  we're  in  Lordkop." 

"I'll  talk  to  your  girl  in  Camden  Town,  if  you  'appen 
to  don't,"  was  the  railing  reply. 

"She  couldn't  stand  it  not  but  the  once,"  was  the  re- 
tort; and  then  they  struck  each  other  with  their  fists  in 
rough  play,  and  laughed,  and  said  good-night  in  the 
vernacular. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

UNDER   THE   GUN 

'"FHEY  had  left  him  for  dead  in  a  dreadful  circle  of 
1  mangled  gunners  who  had  fallen  back  to  cover  in  a 
donga,  from  a  fire  so  stark  that  it  seemed  the  hillside  it- 
self was  discharging  myriad  bolts  of  death,  as  a  water- 
wheel  throws  off  its  spray.  No  enemy  had  been  visible, 
but  far  away  in  front — that  front  which  must  be  taken — 
there  hung  over  the  ridge  of  the  hills  veils  of  smoke  like 
lace.  Hideous  sounds  tortured  the  air — crackling,  snap- 
ping, spitting  sounds  like  the  laughter  of  animals  with 
steel  throats.  Never  was  ill  work  better  done  than  when, 
on  that  radiant  veld,  the  sky  one  vast  turquoise  vault, 
beneath  which  quivered  a  shimmer  of  quicksilver  light, 
the  pom-poms,  the  mausers,  and  the  shrapnel  of  Kruger's 
men  mowed  down  Stafford  and  his  battery,  showered 
them,  drowned  them  in  a  storm  of  lead. 

"  Alamachtig,"  said  a  Rustenburg  dopper  who,  at  the 
end  of  the  day,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  English,  "it  was 
like  cutting  alfalfa  with  a  sickle!  Down  they  tumbled, 
horses  and  men,  mashed  like  mealies  in  the  millstones. 
A  damn  lot  of  good  horses  was  killed  this  time.  The  lead- 
grinders  can't  pick  the  men  and  leave  the  horses.  It  was 
a  verdomde  waste  of  good  horses.  The  Rooinek  eats 
from  a  bloody  basin  this  day." 

Alamachtig! 

At  the  moment  Ian  Stafford  fell  the  battle  was  welt 

launched.      The  air  was  shrieking  with  the  misery  of 

mutilated  men  and  horses  and  the  ghoulish  laughter  of 

pom-poms,    When  he  went  down  it  seemed  to  him  that 

449 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

human  anger  had  reached  its  fullest  expression.  Officers 
and  men  alike  were  in  a  fury  of  determination  and  ven- 
geance. He  had  seen  no  fear,  no  apprehension  anywhere, 
only  a  defiant  anger  which  acted  swiftly,  coolly.  An 
officer  stepped  over  the  lacerated,  shattered  body  of  a 
comrade  of  his  mess  with  the  abstracted  impassiveness  of 
one  who  finds  his  way  over  a  puddle  in  the  road;  and 
here  were  puddles  too  —  puddles  of  blood.  A  gunner 
lifted  away  the  corpse  of  his  nearest  friend  from  the 
trail  and  strained  and  wrenched  at  his  gun  with  the 
intense  concentration  of  one  who  kneads  dough  in  a 
trough.  The  sobbing  agony  of  those  whom  Stafford  had 
led  rose  up  from  the  ground  around  him,  and  voices  cried 
to  be  put  out  of  pain  and  torture.  These  begrimed  men 
around  him,  with  jackets  torn  by  bullets,  with  bandaged 
head  stained  with  blood  or  dragging  leg  which  left  a  track 
of  blood  behind,  were  not  the  men  who  last  night  were 
chatting  round  the  camp-fires  and  making  bets  as  to  where 
the  attack  would  begin  to-day. 

Stafford  was  cool  enough,  however.  It  was  as  though 
an  icy  liquid  had  been  poured  into  his  veins.  He  thought 
more  clearly  than  he  had  ever  done,  even  in  those  critical 
moments  of  his  past  when  cool  thinking  was  indispensa- 
ble. He  saw  the  mistake  that  had  been  made  in  giving 
his  battery  work  which  might  have  been  avoided,  and 
with  the  same  result  to  the  battle;  but  he  also  saw  the 
way  out  of  it,  and  he  gave  orders  accordingly.  When 
the  horses  were  lashed  to  a  gallop  to  take  up  the 
new  position,  which,  if  they  reached,  would  give  them 
shelter  against  this  fiendish  rain  of  lead,  and  also 
enable  them  to  enfilade  the  foe  at  advantage,  some- 
thing suddenly  brought  confusion  to  his  senses,  and  the 
clear  thinking  stopped.  His  being  seemed  to  expand 
suddenly  to  an  enormity  of  chaos  and  then  as  sud- 
denly to  shrink,  dwindle,  and  fall  back  into  a  smother — 
as  though,  in  falling,  blankets  were  drawn  roughly  over 
his  head  and  a  thousand  others  were  shaken  in  the  air 


UNDER    THE    GUN 

around  him.  And  both  were  real  in  their  own  way.  The 
thousand  blankets  napping  in  the  air  were  the  machine- 
guns  of  the  foe  following  his  battery  into  a  zone  of  less 
dreadful  fire,  and  the  blankets  that  smothered  him  were 
wrappings  of  unconsciousness  which  save  us  from  the 
direst  agonies  of  body  and  mind. 

The  last  thing  he  saw,  as  his  eyes,  with  a  final  effort 
of  power,  sought  to  escape  from  this  sudden  confusion, 
was  a  herd  of  springboks  flinging  themselves  about 
in  the  circle  of  fire,  caught  in  the  struggle  of  the  two 
armies,  and,  like  wild  birds  in  a  hurricane,  plunging  here 
and  there  in  flight  and  futile  motion.  As  unconscious- 
ness enwrapped  him  the  vision  of  these  distraught  deni- 
zens of  the  veld  was  before  his  eyes.  Somehow,  in  a 
lightning  transformation,  he  became  one  with  them  and 
was  mingled  with  them. 

Time  passed. 

When  his  eyes  opened  again,  slowly,  heavily,  the  same 
vision  was  before  him — the  negative  left  on  the  film  of 
his  sight  by  his  last  conscious  glance  at  the  world. 

He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and  looked  out  over  the 
veld.  The  springboks  were  still  distractedly  tossing  here 
and  there,  but  the  army  to  which  he  belonged  had  moved 
on.  It  was  now  on  its  way  up  the  hill  lying  between  them 
and  the  Besieged  City.  He  was  dimly  conscious  of  this, 
for  the  fight  round  him  had  ceased,  the  storm  had  gone 
forward.  There  was  noise,  great  noise,  but  he  was  out- 
side of  it,  in  a  kind  of  valley  of  awful  inactivity.  All 
round  him  was  the  debris  of  a  world  in  which  he  had  once 
lived  and  moved  and  worked.  How  many  years — or 
centuries — was  it  since  he  had  been  in  that  harvest  of 
death?  There  was  no  anomaly.  It  was  not  that  time 
had  passed;  it  was  that  his  soul  had  made  so  far  a 
journey. 

In  his  sleep  among  the  guns  and  the  piteous,  mutilated 
dead,  he  had  gone  a  pilgrimage  to  a  Distant  Place  and  had 
been  told  the  secret  of  the  world.  Yet  when  he  first 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

waked,  it  was  not  in  his  mind — only  that  confusion  out 
of  which  he  had  passed  to  nothingness  with  the  vision  of 
the  distracted  springboks.  Suddenly  a  torturing  thirst 
came,  and  it  waked  him  fully  to  the  reality  of  it  all.  He 
was  lying  in  his  own  blood,  in  the  swath  which  the  battle 
had  cut. 

His  work  was  done.  This  came  to  him  slowly,  as  the 
sun  clears  away  the  mists  of  morning.  Something — Some 
One — had  reached  out  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder, 
had  summoned  him. 

When  he  left  Brinkwort's  Farm  yesterday,  it  was  with 
the  desire  to  live,  to  do  large  things.  He  and  Rudyard 
had  clasped  hands,  and  Rudyard  had  made  a  promise  to 
him,  which  gave  him  hope  that  the  broken  roof-tree  would 
be  mended,  the  shattered  walls  of  home  restored.  It  had 
seemed  to  him  then  that  his  own  mistake  was  not  irrep- 
arable, and  that  the  way  was  open  to  peace,  if  not  to 
happiness. 

When  he  first  came  to  this  war  he  had  said,  "  I  will  do 
this,"  and,  "I  will  do  that,"  and  he  had  thought  it  pos- 
sible to  do  it  in  his  own  time  and  because  he  willed  it. 
He  had  put  himself  deliberately  in  the  way  of  the  Scythe, 
and  had  thrown  himself  into  its  arc  of  death. 

To  have  his  own  way  by  tricking  Destiny  into  giving 
him  release  and  absolution  without  penalty — that  had 
been  his  course.  In  the  hour  when  he  had  ceased  to  de- 
sire exit  by  breaking  through  the  wall  and  not  by  the 
predestined  door,  the  reply  of  Destiny  to  him  had  been: 
"It  is  not  for  you  to  choose."  He  had  wished  to  drink 
the  cup  of  release,  had  reached  out  to  take  it,  but  pres- 
ently had  ceased  to  wish  to  drink  it.  Then  Destiny  had 
said:  "Here  is  the  dish — drink  it." 

He  closed  his  eyes  to  shut  out  the  staring  light,  and  he 
wished  in  a  vague  way  that  he  might  shut  out  the  sounds 
of  the  battle — the  everlasting  boom  and  clatter,  the  tear- 
ing reverberations.     But  he  smiled  too,  for  he  realized 
452 


UNDER    THE    GUN 

that  his  being  where  he  was  alone  meant  that  the  army 
had  moved  on  over  that  last  hill;  and  that  there  would 
soon  be  the  Relief  for  which  England  prayed. 

There  was  that  to  the  good;  and  he  had  taken  part  in 
it  all.  His  battery,  a  fragment  of  what  it  had  been  when 
it  galloped  out  to  do  its  work  in  the  early  morning,  had 
had  its  glorious  share  in  the  great  day's  work. 

He  had  had  the  most  critical  and  dangerous  task  of 
this  memorable  day.  He  had  been  on  the  left  flank  of 
the  main  body,  and  his  battery  had  suddenly  faced  a  ter- 
rific fire  from  concealed  riflemen  who  had  not  hitherto 
shown  life  at  this  point.  His  promptness  alone  had  saved 
the  battery  from  annihilation.  His  swift  orders  secured 
the  gallant  withdrawal  of  the  battery  into  a  zone  of  com- 
parative safety  and  renewed  activity,  while  he  was  left 
with  this  one  abandoned  gun  and  his  slain  men  and 
fellow-officers. 

But  somehow  it  all  suddenly  became  small  and  distant 
and  insignificant  to  his  senses.  He  did  not  despise  the 
work,  for  it  had  to  be  done.  It  was  big  to  those  who 
lived,  but  in  the  long  movement  of  time  it  was  small, 
distant  and  subordinate. 

If  only  the  thirst  did  not  torture  him,  if  only  the  sounds 
of  the  battle  were  less  loud  in  his  ears !  It  was  so  long 
since  he  waked  from  that  long  sleep,  and  the  world  was  so 
full  of  noises,  the  air  so  arid,  and  the  light  of  the  sun  so 
fierce.  Darkness  would  be  peace.  He  longed  for  darkness. 

He  thought  of  the  spring  that  came  from  the  rocks  in 
the  glen  behind  the  house,  where  he  was  born  in  Derby- 
shire. He  saw  himself  stooping  down,  kneeling  to  drink, 
his  face,  his  eyes  buried  in  the  water,  as  he  gulped  down 
the  good  stream.  Then  all  at  once  it  was  no  longer  the 
spring  from  the  rock  in  which  he  laved  his  face  and 
freshened  his  parched  throat;  a  cool  cheek  touched  his 
own,  lips  of  tender  freshness  swept  his  brow,  silken  hair 
with  a  faint  perfume  of  flowers  brushed  his  temples,  his 
453 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

head  rested  on  a  breast  softer  than  any  pillow  he  had 
ever  known. 

"Jasmine!"  he  whispered,  with  parched  lips  and  closed 
eyes.  "Jasmine — water,"  he  pleaded,  and  sank  away 
again  into  that  dream  from  which  he  had  but  just  wakened. 

It  had  not  been  all  a  vision.  Water  was  here  at  his 
tongue,  his  head  was  pillowed  on  a  woman's  breast,  lips 
touched  his  forehead. 

But  it  was  not  Jasmine's  breast;  it  was  not  Jasmine's 
hand  which  held  the  nozzle  of  the  water-bag  to  his  parched 
lips. 

Through  the  zone  of  fire  a  woman  and  a  young  surgeon 
had  made  their  way  from  the  attending  ambulance  that 
hovered  on  the  edge  of  battle  to  this  corner  of  death  in 
the  great  battle-field.  It  mattered  not  to  the  enemy,  who 
still  remained  in  the  segment  of  the  circle  where  they 
first  fought,  whether  it  was  man  or  woman  who  crossed 
this  zone  of  fire.  No  heed  could  be  given  now  to  Red 
Cross  work,  to  ambulance,  nurse,  or  surgeon.  There 
would  come  a  time  for  that,  but  not  yet.  Here  were  two 
races  in  a  life-and-death  grip;  and  there  could  be  no  give 
and  take  for  the  wounded  or  the  dead  until  the  issue  of 
the  day  was  closed. 

The  woman  who  had  come  through  the  zone  of  fire  was 
Al'mah.  She  had  no  right  to  be  where  she  was.  As  a 
nurse  her  place  was  not  the  battle-field;  but  she  had  had 
a  premonition  of  Stafford's  tragedy,  and  in  the  night  had 
concealed  herself  in  the  blankets  of  an  ambulance  and 
had  been  carried  across  the  veld  to  that  outer  circle  of 
battle  where  wait  those  who  gather  up  the  wreckage,  who 
provide  the  salvage  of  war.  When  she  was  discovered 
there  was  no  other  course  but  to  allow  her  to  remain ;  and 
so  it  was  that  as  the  battle  moved  on  she  made  her  way 
to  where  the  wounded  and  dead  lay. 

A  sorely  wounded  officer,  able  with  the  help  of  a  slight- 
ly injured  gunner  to  get  out  of  the  furnace  of  fire,  had 
brought  word  of  Stafford's  death*  but  with  the  instinct  of 
454 


UNDER   THE    GUN 

those  to  whom  there  come  whisperings,  visions  of  things, 
Al'mah  felt  she  must  go  and  find  the  man  with  whose 
fate,  in  a  way,  her  own  had  been  linked;  who,  like  her- 
self, had  been  a  derelict  upon  the  sea  of  life;  the  grip  of 
whose  hand,  the  look  of  whose  eyes  the  last  time  she 
saw  him,  told  her  that  as  a  brother  loves  so  he  loved 
her. 

Hundreds  saw  the  two  make  their  way  across  the  veld, 
across  the  lead-swept  plain;  but  such  things  in  the  hour 
of  battle  are  commonplaces;  they  are  taken  as  part  of 
the  awful  game.  Neither  mauser  nor  shrapnel  nor 
maxim  brought  them  down  as  they  made  their  way  to 
the  abandoned  gun  beside  which  Stafford  lay.  Yet  only 
one  reached  Stafford's  side,  where  he  was  stretched  among 
his  dead  comrades.  The  surgeon  stayed  his  course  at 
three-quarters  of  the  distance  to  care  for  a  gunner  whose 
mutilations  were  robbed  of  half  their  horror  by  a  courage 
and  a  humour  which  brought  quick  tears  to  ATmah's  eyes. 
With  both  legs  gone  the  stricken  fellow  asked  first  for  a 
match  to  light  his  cutty  pipe  and  then  remarked:  "The 
saint's  own  luck  that  there  it  was  with  the  stem  unbroke 
to  give  me  aise  whin  I  wanted  it ! 

"Shure,  I  thought  I  was  dead,"  he  added  as  the  surgeon 
stooped  over  him,  "till  I  waked  up  and  give  meself  the 
lie,  and  got  a  grip  o'  me  pipe,  glory  be!" 

With  great  difficulty  Al'mah  dragged  Stafford  under 
the  horseless  gun,  left  behind  when  the  battery  moved 
on.  Both  forces  had  thought  that  nothing  could  live  in 
that  grey-brown  veld,  and  no  effort  at  first  was  made  to 
rescue  or  take  it.  By  every  law  of  probability  Al'mah 
and  the  young  surgeon  ought  to  be  lying  dead  with  the 
others  who  had  died,  some  with  as  many  as  twenty  bullet- 
wounds  in  their  bodies,  while  the  gunner,  who  had  served 
this  gun  to  the  last  and  then,  alone,  had  stood  at  atten- 
tion till  the  lead  swept  him  down,  had  thirty  wounds  to 
his  credit  for  England's  sake.  Under  the  gun  there  was 
30  455 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

some  shade,  for  she  threw  over  it  a  piece  of  tarpaulin 
and  some  ragged,  blood-stained  jackets  lying  near — 
jackets  of  men  whose  wounds  their  comrades  had  tried 
hastily  to  help  when  the  scythe  of  war  cut  them  down. 

There  was  shade  now,  but  there  was  not  safety,  for 
the  ground  was  spurting  dust  where  bullets  struck,  and 
even  bodies  of  dead  men  were  dishonoured  by  the  insult 
of  new  wounds  and  mutilations. 

Al'mah  thought  nothing  of  safety,  but  only  of  this  life 
which  was  ebbing  away  beside  her.  She  saw  that  a  sur- 
geon could  do  nothing,  that  the  hurt  was  internal  and 
mortal ;  but  she  wished  him  not  to  die  until  she  had  spoken 
with  him  once  again  and  told  him  all  there  was  to  tell — 
all  that  had  happened  after  he  left  Brinkwort's  Farm  yes- 
terday. 

She  looked  at  the  drawn  and  blanched  face  and  asked 
herself  if  that  look  of  pain  and  mortal  trouble  was  the 
precursor  of  happiness  and  peace.  As  she  bathed  the 
forehead  of  the  wounded  man,  it  suddenly  came  to  her 
that  here  was  the  only  tragedy  connected  with  Stafford's 
going:  his  work  was  cut  short,  his  usefulness  ended,  his 
hand  was  fallen  from  the  lever  that  lifted  things. 

She  looked  away  from  the  blanched  face  to  the  field  of 
battle,  towards  the  sky  above  it.  Circling  above  were 
the  vile  aasvogels,  the  loathsome  birds  which  followed 
the  track  of  war,  watching,  waiting  till  they  could  swoop 
upon  the  flesh  blistering  in  the  sun.  Instinctively  she 
drew  nearer  to  the  body  of  the  dying  man,  as  though 
to  protect  it  from  the  evil  flying  things.  She  forced  be- 
tween his  lips  a  little  more  water. 

"God  make  it  easy!"  she  said. 

A  bullet  struck  a  wheel  beside  her,  and  with  a  ricochet 
passed  through  the  flesh  of  her  forearm.  A  strange  look 
came  into  her  eyes,  suffusing  them.  Was  her  work  done 
also?  Was  she  here  to  find  the  solution  of  all  her  own 
problems — like  Stafford — like  Stafford?  Stooping,  she 
reverently  kissed  the  bloodless  cheek.  A  kind  of  exalta- 
456 


UNDER    THE    GUN 

tion  possessed  her.  There  was  no  fear  at  all.  She  had 
a  feeling  that  he  would  need  her  on  the  journey  he  was 
about  to  take,  and  there  was  no  one  else  who  could  help 
him  now.  Who  else  was  there  beside  herself — and 
Jigger? 

Where  was  Jigger?  What  had  become  of  Jigger?  He 
would  surely  have  been  with  Stafford  if  he  had  not  been 
hurt  or  killed.  It  was  not  like  Jigger  to  be  absent  when 
Stafford  needed  him. 

She  looked  out  from  under  the  gun,  as  though  expecting 
to  find  him  coming — to  see  him  somewhere  on  this  stricken 
plain.  As  she  did  so  she  saw  the  young  surgeon,  who  had 
stayed  to  help  the  wounded  gunner,  stumbling  and  lurch- 
ing towards  the  gun,  hands  clasping  his  side,  and  head 
thrust  forward  in  an  attitude  of  tense  expectation,  as 
though  there  was  a  goal  which  must  be  reached. 

An  instant  later  she  was  outside  hastening  towards 
him.  A  bullet  spat  at  her  feet,  another  cut  the  skirt  of 
her  dress,  but  all  she  saw  was  the  shambling  figure  of  the 
man  who,  but  a  few  minutes  before,  was  so  flexible  and 
alert  with  life,  eager  to  relieve  the  wounds  of  those  who 
had  fallen.  Now  he  also  was  in  dire  need. 

She  had  almost  reached  him  when,  with  a  stiff  jerk  side- 
ways and  an  angular  assertion  of  the  figure,  he  came  to 
the  ground  like  a  log,  ungainly  and  rigid. 

"They  got  me!  I'm  hit — twice,"  he  said,  with  grey 
lips;  with  eyes  that  stared  at  her  and  through  her  to  some- 
thing beyond;  but  he  spoke  in  an  abrupt,  professional, 
commonplace  tone.  "Shrapnel  and  mauser/'  he  added, 
his  hands  protecting  the  place  where  the  shrapnel  had 
found  him.  His  staring  blue  eyes  took  on  a  dull  cloud, 
and  his  whole  figure  seemed  to  sink  and  shrink  away.  As 
though  realizing  and  resisting,  if  not  resenting  this  dis- 
solution of  his  forces,  his  voice  rang  out  querulously,  and 
his  head  made  dogmatic  emphasis. 

"They  oughtn't  to  have  done  it,"  the  petulant  voice 
insisted.  "I  wasn't  fighting."  Suddenly  the  voice 
457 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

trailed  away,  and  all  emphasis,  accent,  and  articulation 
passed  from  the  sentient  figure.  Yet  his  lips  moved  once 
again.  "Ninety-nine  Adelphi  Terrace — first  floor,"  he 
said  mechanically,  and  said  no  more. 

As  mechanically  as  he  had  spoken,  Al'mah  repeated 
the  last  words.  "Ninety-nine  Adelphi  Terrace,  first 
floor,"  she  said  slowly. 

They  were  chambers  next  to  those  where  Adrian  Fel- 
lowes  had  lived  and  died.  She  shuddered. 

"So  he  was  not  married,"  she  said  reflectively,  as  she 
left  the  lifeless  body  and  went  back  to  the  gun  where 
Stafford  lay. 

Her  arm  through  which  the  bullet  had  passed  was 
painful,  but  she  took  no  heed  of  it.  Why  should  she? 
Hundreds,  maybe  thousands,  were  being  killed  off  there 
in  the  hills.  She  saw  nothing  except  the  debris  of  Ian 
Stafford's  life  drifting  out  to  the  shoreless  sea. 

He  lived  still,  but  remained  unconscious,  and  she  did 
not  relax  her  vigil.  As  she  watched  and  waited  the  words 
of  the  young  surgeon  kept  ringing  in  her  ears,  a  monoto- 
nous discord,  " Ninety-nine  Adelphi  Terrace— first  floor!" 
Behind  it  all  was  the  music  of  the  song  she  had  sung  at 
Rudyard  Byng's  house  the  evening  of  the  day  Adrian 
Fellowes  had  died — "More  was  lost  at  Mohacksfield." 

The  stupefaction  that  comes  with  tragedy  crept  over 
her.  As  the  victim  of  an  earthquake  sits  down  amid  vast 
ruins,  where  the  dead  lie  unnumbered,  speechless,  and 
heedless,  so  she  sat  and  watched  the  face  of  the  man 
beside  her,  and  was  not  conscious  that  the  fire  of  the 
armies  was  slackening,  that  bullets  no  longer  spattered 
the  veld  or  struck  the  gun  where  she  sat;  that  the  battle 
had  been  carried  over  the  hills. 

In  time  help  would  come,  so  she  must  wait.  At  least 
she  had  kept  Stafford  alive.  So  far  her  journey  through 
Hades  had  been  justified.  He  would  have  died  had  it 
not  been  for  the  water  and  brandy  she  had  forced  between 
his  lips,  for  the  shade  in  which  he  lay  beneath  the  gun. 
458 


UNDER    THE    GUN 

In  the  end  they  would  come  and  gather  the  dead  and 
wounded.  When  the  battle  was  over  they  would  come, 
or,  maybe,  before  it  was  over. 

But  through  how  many  hours  had  there  been  the  sick- 
ening monotony  of  artillery  and  rifle-fire,  the  bruit  of 
angry  metal,  in  which  the  roar  of  angrier  men  was  no  more 
than  a  discord  in  the  guttural  harmony.  Her  senses 
became  almost  deadened  under  the  strain.  Her  cheeks 
grew  thinner,  her  eyes  took  on  a  fixed  look.  She  seemed 
like  one  in  a  dream.  She  was  only  conscious  in  an  isolated 
kind  of  way.  Louder  than  all  the  noises  of  the  clanging 
day  was  the  beating  of  her  heart.  Her  very  body  seemed 
to  throb,  the  pulses  in  her  temples  were  like  hammers 
hurting  her  brain. 

At  last  she  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs. 

So  the  service-corps  were  coming  at  last  to  take  up  the 
wounded  and  bury  the  dead.  There  were  so  many  dead, 
so  few  wounded! 

The  galloping  came  nearer  and  nearer.  It  was  now  as 
loud  as  thunder  almost.  It  stopped  short.  She  gave  a 
sigh  of  relief.  Her  vigil  was  ended.  Stafford  was  still 
alive.  There  was  yet  a  chance  for  him  to  know  that 
friends  were  with  him  at  the  last,  and  also  what  had  hap- 
pened at  Brinkwort's  Farm  after  he  had  left  yesterday. 

She  leaned  out  to  see  her  rescuers.  A  cry  broke  from 
her.  Here  was  one  man  frantically  hitching  a  pair  of 
artillery-horses  to  the  gun  and  swearing  fiercely  in  the 
Taal  as  he  did  so. 

The  last  time  she  had  seen  that  khaki  hat,  long,  thread- 
bare frock-coat,  huge  Hessian  boots  and  red  neckcloth 
was  at  Brinkwort's  Farm.  The  last  time  she  had  seen 
that  malevolent  face  was  when  its  owner  was  marched 
away  from  Brinkwort's  Farm  yesterday. 

It  was  Krool. 

An  instant  later  she  had  dragged  Stafford  out  from  be- 
neath the  gun,  for  it  was  clear  that  the  madman  intended 
£o  ri4e  off  with  it, 

459 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

When  Krool  saw  her  first  he  was  fastening  the  last  hook 
of  the  traces  with  swift,  trained  fingers.  He  stood  dum- 
founded  for  a  moment.  The  superstitious,  half-mystical 
thing  in  him  came  trembling  to  his  eyes1;  then  he  saw 
Stafford's  body,  and  he  realized  the  situation.  A  look 
of  savage  hatred  came  into  his  face,  and  he  made  a  step 
forward  with  sudden  impulse,  as  though  he  would  spring 
upon  Stafford.  His  hand  was  upon  a  knife  at  his  belt. 
But  the  horses  plunged  and  strained,  and  he  saw  in  the 
near  distance  a  troop  of  cavalry. 

With  an  obscene  malediction  at  the  body,  he  sprang 
upon  a  horse.  A  sjambok  swung,  and  with  a  snort, 
which  was  half  a  groan,  the  trained  horses  sprang 
forward. 

"The  Rooinek's  gun  for  Oom  Paul!"  he  shouted  back 
over  his  shoulder. 

Most  prisoners  would  have  been  content  to  escape  and 
save  their  skins,  but  a  more  primitive  spirit  lived  in  Krool. 
Escape  was  not  enough  for  him.  Since  he  had  been  foiled 
at  Brinkwort's  Farm  and  could  not  reach  Rudyard  Byng; 
since  he  would  be  shot  the  instant  he  was  caught  after  his 
escape — if  he  was  caught — he  would  do  something  to 
gall  the  pride  of  the  verdomde  English.  The  gun  which  the 
Boers  had  not  dared  to  issue  forth  and  take,  which  the 
British  could  not  rescue  without  heavy  loss  while  the 
battle  was  at  its  height — he  would  ride  it  over  the  hills 
into  the  Boers'  camp. 

There  was  something  so  grotesque  in  the  figure  of  the 
half-caste,  with  his  dopper-coat  flying  behind  him  as  the 
horses  galloped  away,  that  a  wan  smile  came  to  Al'mah's 
lips.  With  Stafford  at  her  feet  in  the  staring  sun  she  yet 
could  not  take  her  eyes  from  the  man,  the  horses,  and  the 
gun.  And  not  Al'mah  alone  shaded  and  strained  eyes 
to  follow  the  tumbling,  bouncing  gun.  Rifles,  maxims, 
and  pom-poms  opened  fire  upon  it.  It  sank  into  a  hollow 
and  was  partially  lost  to  sight;  it  rose  again  and  jerked 
forward,  the  dust  rising  behind  it  like  surf.  It  swayed 
460 


UNDER    THE    GUN 

and  swung,  as  the  horses  wildly  took  the  incline  of  the 
hills,  Krool's  sjambok  swinging  above  them;  it  struggled 
with  the  forces  that  dragged  it  higher  and  higher  up,  as 
though  it  were  human  and  understood  that  it  was  a 
British  gun  being  carried  into  the  Boer  lines. 

At  first  a  battery  of  the  Boers,  righting  a  rear-guard 
action,  had  also  fired  on  it,  but  the  gunners  saw  quickly 
that  a  single  British  gun  was  not  likely  to  take  up  an 
advance  position  and  attack  alone,  and  their  fire  died 
away.  Thinking  only  that  some  daring  Boer  was  doing 
the  thing  with  a  thousand  odds  against  him,  they  roared 
approval  as  the  gun  came  nearer  and  nearer. 

Though  the  British  poured  a  terrific  fire  after  the  flying 
battery  of  one  gun,  there  was  something  so  splendid  in 
the  episode;  the  horses  were  behaving  so  gallantly, — 
horses  of  one  of  their  own  batteries  daringly  taken  by 
Krool  under  the  noses  of  the  force — that  there  was  scarce- 
ly a  man  who  was  not  glad  when,  at  last,  the  gun  made  a 
sudden  turn  at  a  kopje,  and  was  lost  to  sight  within  the 
Boer  lines,  leaving  behind  it  a  little  cloud  of  dust. 

Tommy  Atkins  had  his  uproarious  joke  about  it,  but 
there  was  one  man  who  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when  he 
heard  of  it.  That  was  Barry  Whalen.  He  had  every 
reason  to  be  glad  that  Krool  was  out  of  the  way,  and  that 
Rudyard  Byng  would  see  him  no  more.  Sitting  beside 
the  still  unconscious  Ian  Stafford  on  the  veld,  Al'mah's 
reflections  were  much  the  same  as  those  of  Barry 
Whalen. 

With  the  flight  of  Krool  and  the  gun  came  the  end  of 
Al'mah's  vigil.  The  troop  of  cavalry  which  galloped 
out  to  her  was  followed  by  the  Red  Cross  wagons. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

"PHEIDIPPIDES" 

AT  dawn,  when  the  veld  breathes  odours  of  a  kind 
pungency  and  fragrance,  which  only  those  know  who 
have  made  it  their  bed  and  friend,  the  end  came  to  the 
man  who  had  lain  under  the  gun. 

"  Pheidippides !"  the  dying  Stafford  said,  with  a  grim 
touch  of  the  humour  which  had  ever  been  his.  He  was 
thinking  of  the  Greek  runner  who  brought  the  news  of 
victory  to  Athens  and  fell  dead  as  he  told  it. 

It  almost  seemed  from  the  look  on  Stafford's  face  that, 
in  very  truth,  he  was  laying  aside  the  impedimenta  of  the 
long  march  and  the  battle,  to  carry  the  news  to  that 
army  of  the  brave  in  Walhalla  who  had  died  for  England 
before  they  knew  that  victory  was  hers. 

"Pheidippides,"  he  repeated,  and  Rudyard  Byng, 
whose  eyes  were  so  much  upon  the  door,  watching  and 
waiting  for  some  one  to  come,  pressed  his  hand  and  said: 
"You  know  the  best,  Stafford.  So  many  didn't.  They 
had  to  go  before  they  knew." 

"I  have  my  luck,"  Stafford  replied,  but  yet  there  was 
a  wistful  look  in  his  face. 

His  eyes  slowly  closed,  and  he  lay  so  motionless  that 
Al'mah  and  Rudyard  thought  he  had  gone.  He  scarcely 
seemed  to  notice  when  Al'mah  took  the  hand  that  Rud- 
yard had  held,  and  the  latter,  with  quick,  noiseless  steps, 
left  the  room. 

What  Rudyard  had  been  watching  and  waiting  for  was 
come, 

462 


"PHEIDIPPIDES" 

Jasmine  was  at  the  door.  His  message  had  brought 
her  in  time. 

"  Is  it  dangerous?"  she  asked,  with  a  face  where  tragedy 
had  written  self-control. 

"As  bad  as  can  be,"  he  answered.  "Go  in  and  speak 
to  him,  Jasmine.  It  will  help  him." 

He  opened  the  door  softly.  As  Jasmine  entered,  Al'mah 
with  a  glance  of  pity  and  friendship  at  the  face  upon  the 
bed,  passed  into  another  room. 

There  was  a  cry  in  Jasmine's  heart,  but  it  did  not  reach 
her  lips. 

She  stole  to  the  bed  and  laid  her  fingers  upon  the  hand 
lying  white  and  still  upon  the  coverlet. 

At  once  the  eyes  of  the  dying  man  opened.  This  was 
a  touch  that  would  reach  to  the  farthest  borders  of  his 
being — would  bring  him  back  from  the  Immortal  Gates. 
Through  the  mist  of  his  senses  he  saw  her.  He  half 
raised  himself.  She  pillowed  his  head  on  her  breast. 
He  smiled.  A  light  transfigured  his  face. 

"All's  well,"  he  said,  with  a  long  sigh,  and  his  body 
sank  slowly  down. 

"Ian!  Ian!"  she  cried,  but  she  knew  that  he  could  not 
hear. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX 

"  THE   ROAD    IS    CLEAR  " 

THE  Army  had  moved  on  over  the  hills,  into  the  valley 
of  death  and  glory,  across  the  parched  veld  to  the 
town  of  Lordkop,  where  an  emaciated,  ragged  garrison  had 
kept  faith  with  all  the  heroes  from  Caractacus  to  Nelson. 
Courageous  legions  had  found  their  way  to  the  petty 
dorp,  with  its  corrugated  iron  roofs,  its  dug-outs,  its  im- 
provised forts,  its  fever  hospitals,  its  Treasure  House  of 
Britain,  where  she  guarded  the  jewels  of  her  honour. 

The  menace  of  the  hills  had  passed,  heroes  had  wel- 
comed heroes  and  drunk  the  cup  of  triumph;  but  far  back 
in  the  valleys  beyond  the  hills  from  which  the  army  had 
come,  there  were  those  who  must  drink  the  cup  of  trem- 
bling, the  wine  of  loss. 

As  the  trumpets  of  victory  attended  the  steps  of  those 
remnants  of  brigades  which  met  the  remnants  of  a  glori- 
ous garrison  in  the  streets  of  Lordkop,  drums  of  mourn- 
ing conducted  the  steps  of  those  who  came  to  bury  the 
dust  of  one  who  had  called  himself  Pheidippides  as  he  left 
the  Day  Path  and  took  the  Night  Road. 

Gun-carriage  and  reversed  arms  and  bay  charger, 
faithful  comrades  with  bent  heads,  the  voice  of  victory 
over  the  grave — "/  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life" — the 
volleys  of  honour,  the  proud  salut  of  the  brave  to  the  van- 
ished brave,  the  quivering  farewells  of  the  few  who  turn 
away  from  the  fresh-piled  earth  with  their  hearts  drag- 
ging behind — all  had  been;  and  all  had  gone.  Evening 
descended  upon  the  veld  with  a  golden  radiance  which 
soothed  like  prayer. 

464 


"THE    ROAD    IS    CLEAR" 

By  the  open  window  at  the  foot  of  a  bed  in  the  Stay 
Awhile  Hospital  a  woman  gazed  into  the  saffron  splendour 
with  an  intentness  which  seemed  to  make  all  her  body 
listen.  Both  melancholy  and  purpose  marked  the  atti- 
tude of  the  figure. 

A  voice  from  the  bed  at  the  foot  of  which  she  stood  drew 
her  gaze  away  from  the  sunset  sky  to  meet  the  bright, 
troubled  eyes. 

"What  is  it,  Jigger?"  the  woman  asked  gently,  and  she 
looked  to  see  that  the  framework  which  kept  the  bed- 
clothes from  a  shattered  leg  was  properly  in  its  place. 

"  'E  done  a  lot  for  me,"  was  the  reply.  "A  lot  'e  done, 
and  I  dunno  how  I'll  git  along  now." 

There  was  great  hopelessness  in  the  tone. 

"He  told  me  you  would  always  have  enough  to  help 
you  get  on,  Jigger.  He  thought  of  all  that." 

"'Ere,  oh,  'ere  it  ain't  that,"  the  lad  said  in  a  sudden 
passion  of  protest,  the  tears  standing  in  his  eyes.  "It 
ain't  that!  Wot's  money,  when  your  friend  wot  give  it 
ain't  'ere!  I  never  done  nothing  for  'im — that's  wot  I 
feel.  Nothing  at  all  for  'im." 

"You  are  wrong,"  was  the  soft  reply.  "He  told  me 
only  a  few  days  ago  that  you  were  like  a  loaf  of  bread 
in  the  cupboard — good  for  all  the  time." 

The  tears  left  the  wide  blue  eyes.  "Did  'e  say  that — 
did  'e?"  he  asked,  and  when  she  nodded  and  smiled,  he 
added,  "'E's  'appy  now,  ain't  'e?"  His  look  questioned 
her  eagerly. 

For  an  instant  she  turned  and  gazed  at  the  sunset,  and 
her  eyes  took  on  a  strange  mystical  glow.  A  colour  came 
to  her  face,  as  though  from  strong  flush  of  feeling,  then  she 
turned  to  him  again,  and  answered  steadily: 

"Yes,  he  is  happy  now." 

"How  do  you  know?"  the  lad  asked  with  awe  in  his 
face,  for  he  believed  in  her  utterly.  Then,  without  wait- 
ing for  her  to  answer,  he  added:  " Is  it,  you  hear  him  say 
so,  as  I  hear  you  singin'  in  my  sleep  sometimes — singin', 
465 


THE   JUDGMENT   HOUSE 

singin',  as  you  did  at  Glencader,  that  first  time  I  ever 
'eerd  you?  Is  it  the  same  as  me  in  my  sleep?" 

"Yes,  it  is  like  that—just  like  that,"  she  answered, 
taking  his  hand,  and  holding  it  with  a  motherly  ten- 
derness. 

"Ain't  you  never  goin'  to  sing  again?"  he  added. 

She  was  silent,  looking  at  him  almost  abstractedly. 

"This  war  "11  be  over  pretty  soon  now,"  he  continued, 
"and  we'll  all  have  to  go  back  to  work." 

"Isn't  this  work?"  Al'mah  asked  with  a  smile,  which 
had  in  it  something  of  her  old  whimsical  self. 

"It  ain't  play,  and  it  ain't  work,"  he  answered  with  a 
sage  frown  of  intellectual  effort.  "It's  a  cut  above  'em 
both — that's  my  fancy." 

"It  would  seem  like  that,"  was  the  response.  "What 
are  you  going  to  do  when  you  get  back  to  England?"  she 
inquired. 

"I  thought  I'd  ask  you  that,"  he  replied  anxiously. 
"Couldn't  I  be  a  scene-shifter  or  somefink  at  the  opery 
w'ere  you  sing?" 

"I'm  going  to  sing  again,  am  I?"  she  asked. 

"You'd  have  to  be  busy,"  he  protested  admiringly. 

"Yes,  I'll  have  to  be  busy,"  she  replied,  her  voice  ring- 
ing a  little,  "and  we'll  have  to  find  a  way  of  being  busy 
together." 

"His  gryce  'd  like  that,"  he  responded. 

She  turned  her  face  slowly  to  the  evening  sky,  wftere 
grey  clouds  became  silver  and  piled  up  to  a  summit  of 
light.  She  was  silent  for  a  long  time. 

"If  work  won't  cure,  nothing  will,"  she  said  in  a  voice 
scarce  above  a  whisper.  Her  body  trembled  a  little,  and 
her  eyes  closed,  as  though  to  shut  out  something  that 
pained  her  sight. 

"I  wish  you'd  sing  somethin' — same  as  you  did  that 
night  at  Glencader,  about  the  green  hill  far  away,"  whis- 
pered the  little  trumpeter  from  the  bed. 

She  looked  at  fcim  for  a  moment  meditatively,  then 


"THE    ROAD    IS    CLEAR" 

shook  her  head,  and  turned  again  to  the  light  in  the 
evening  sky. 

"P'raps  she's  makin'  up  a  new  song,"  Jigger  said  to 
himself. 

On  a  kopje  overlooking  the  place  where  Ian  Stafford  had 
been  laid  to  sleep  to  the  call  of  the  trumpets,  two  people 
sat  watching  the  sun  go  down.  Never  in  the  years  that 
had  gone  had  there  been  such  silence  between  them  as 
they  sat  together.  Words  had  been  the  clouds  in  which 
the  lightning  of  their  thoughts  had  been  lost;  they  had 
been  the  disguises  in  which  the  truth  of  things  mas- 
queraded. They  had  not  dared  to  be  silent,  lest  the  truth 
should  stalk  naked  before  them.  Silence  would  have 
revealed  their  unhappiness;  they  would  not  have  dared 
to  look  closely  and  deeply  into  each  other's  face,  lest 
revelation  should  force  them  to  say,  "It  has  been 
a  mistake;  let  us  end  it."  So  they  had  talked  and 
talked  and  acted,  and  yet  had  done  nothing  and  been 
nothing. 

Now  they  were  silent,  because  they  had  tossed  into  the 
abyss  of  Time  the  cup  of  trembling,  and  had  drunk  of  the 
chalice  of  peace.  Over  the  grave  into  which,  this  day, 
they  had  thrown  the  rock-roses  and  sprigs  of  the  karoo 
bush,  they  had,  in  silence,  made  pledges  to  each  other, 
that  life's  disguises  should  be  no  more  for  them;  that 
the  door  should  be  wide  open  between  the  chambers  where 
their  souls  dwelt,  each  in  its  own  pension  of  being,  with  its 
own  individual  sense,  but  with  the  same  light,  warmth, 
and  nutriment,  and  with  the  free  confidence  which  exempts 
life  from  its  confessions.  There  should  be  no  hidden 
things  any  more. 

There  was  a  smile  on  the  man's  face  as  he  looked  out 
over  the  valley.  With  this  day  had  come  triumph  for  the 
flag  he  loved,  for  the  land  where  he  was  born,  and  also  the 
beginning  of  peace  for  the  land  where  he  had  worked, 
where  he  had  won  his  great  fortune.  He  had  helped  to 
467 


THE   JUDGMENT    HOUSE 

make  this  land  what  it  was,  and  in  battle  he  had  helped 
to  save  it  from  disaster. 

But  there  had  come  another  victory — the  victory  of 
Home.  The  coincidence  of  all  the  vital  values  had  come 
in  one  day,  almost  in  one  hour. 

Smiling,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  delicate  fingers 
of  the  woman  beside  him,. as  they  rested  on  her  knee. 
She  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  an  understanding 
which  is  the  beginning  of  all  happiness;  and  a  colour  came 
to  her  cheeks  such  as  he  had  not  seen  there  for  more  days 
than  he  could  count.  Her  smile  answered  his  own,  but 
her  eyes  had  a  sadness  which  would  never  wholly  leave 
them.  When  he  had  first  seen  those  eyes  he  had  thought 
them  the  most  honest  he  had  ever  known.  Looking  at 
them  now,  with  confidence  restored,  he  thought  again  as 
he  did  that  night  at  the  opera  the  year  of  the  Raid. 

"  It's  all  before  us  still,  Jasmine,"  he  said  with  a  ring  of 
purpose  and  a  great  gentleness  in  his  tone. 

Her  hand  trembled,  the  shadows  deepened  in  her  eyes, 
but  determination  gathered  at  her  lips. 

Some  deep -cherished,  deferred  resolve  reasserted  it- 
self. 

"But  I  cannot — I  cannot  go  on  until  you  know  all, 
Rudyard,  and  then  you  may  not  wish  to  go  on,"  she  said. 
Her  voice  shook,  and  the  colour  went  from  her  lips.  "I 
must  be  honest  now — at  last,  about  everything.  I  want 
to  tell  you — " 

He  got  to  his  feet.  Stooping,  he  raised  her,  and  looked 
her  squarely  in  the  eyes. 

"Tell  me  nothing,  Jasmine,"  he  said.  Then  he  added 
in  a  voice  of  finality,  ' '  There  is  nothing  to  tell. "  Holding 
both  her  hands  tight  in  one  of  his  own,  he  put  his  fingers 
on  her  lips. 

"A  fresh  start  for  a  long  race — the  road  is  clear,"  he 
said  firmly. 

Looking  into  his  eyes,  she  knew  that  he  read  her  life 
and  soul,  that  in  his  deep  primitive  way  he  understood 
468 


'THE    ROAD    IS    CLEAR" 

her  as  she  had  been  and  as  she  was,  and  yet  was  content 
to  go  on.  Her  head  drooped  upon  his  breast. 

A  trumpet-call  rang  out  piercingly  sweet  across  the  val- 
ley. It  echoed  and  echoed  away  among  the  hills. 

He  raised  his  head  to  listen.  Pride,  vision  and  power 
were  in  his  eyes. 

"It's  all  before  us  still,  Jasmine,"  he  said  again. 

Her  fingers  tightened  on  his. 


THE  ENT; 


GLOSSARY 

AASVOGEL Vulture. 

ALFALFA Lucerne. 

BILTONG Strips  of  dried  meat. 

DISSELBOOM The  single  shaft  of  an  ox -wagon. 

DONGA A  gulley  or  deep  fissure  in  the  soil. 

DOPPER A  dissenter  from  the  Dutch  Reformed  Church, 

but    generally    applied    to    Dutchmen    in 

South  Africa. 

DORP Settlement  or  town. 

KAROO The  highlands  of  the  interior  of  South  Africa. 

KOPJE A  rounded  hillock. 

KLOOF A  gap  or  pass  in  mountains. 

KRAAL Native  hut ;  also  a  walled  inclosure  for  cattle. 

KRANZES Rocky  precipices. 

MEERKAT A  species  of  ichneumon. 

ROOINEK Literally,  "red-neck";  term  applied  to  British 

soldiers  by  the  Boers. 

SCHANSES Intrenchments  (or  fissures  on  hills). 

SJAMBOK A  stick  or  whip  made  from  hippopotamus  01 

rhinoceros  hide. 

SPRUIT A  small  stream. 

STOEP Veranda  of  a  Dutch  house. 

TAAL South  African  Dutch. 

TREK To  move  from  place  to  place  with  belongings. 

VELD An  open  grassy  plain. 

VELDSCHOEN Rough  untanned  leather  shoes. 

VERDOMDE Damned. 

VIERKLEUR The  national   flag   (four  colours)   of  the  late 

South  African  Republics. 

VOORTREKKER Pioneer. 

VROUW...  ...Wife. 


A     000034536 


